GIFT   OF 
Lesll  c    Van  Ness    Demian 


Uf 


CYTHEREA 


THE    WORKS   OF 
JOSEPH   HERGESHEIMER 

NOVELS 

THE  LAY  ANTHONY   [1914] 
MOUNTAIN  BLOOD   [1915] 
THE  THREE  BLACK  PENNYS  [1917] 
JAVA  HEAD   [1918] 
LINDA   CONDON    [1919] 
CYTHEREA   [1922] 

SHORTER  STORIES 
WILD  ORANGES  [1918] 
TUBAL  CAIN  [1918] 
THE  DARK  FLEECE   [1918] 
THE  HAPPY  END  [1919] 

TRAVEL 
SAN  CRISTOBAL  DE  LA  HABANA  [1920] 


NEfTYORK:    A  LF  RE  D  A.  K  N  O  P  F 


CYTHEREA 


JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 


NEW   YORK 
ALFRED 'A' KNOPF 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published  January,  1922 
Second  Printing,  January,  iQ*2 
Third  Printing,  January,  1922 
Fourth  Printing,  January,  1922 


GIFT  OF 


•^i«. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.Y. 
Paper  furnished  by  S.  D.  Warren  <fc  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 
Printed  and  bound  by  the  Plimpton  Press,  Norwood,  Mass. 


MANUFACTURED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


For 
DOROTHY 

Charming  in  the  present 

and 
Secure  'with  the  past 


M103863 


CYTHEREA 


IT  was,  probably,  Lee  Randon  realized,  the  last 
time  he  would  play  golf  that  year.  He  concluded 
this  standing  on  a  shorn  hill  about  which  the 
country  was  spread  in  sere  diminishing  tones  to  the  grey 
horizon.  Below,  a  stream  held  a  cold  glimmer  in  a 
meadow  of  brown,  frost-killed  grass;  and  the  wind, 
the  bitter  flaws  where  Lee  stood,  was  thinly  scattered 
with  soft  crystals  of  snow.  He  was  alone,  no  one 
would  play  with  him  so  late  in  the  season,  and  there 
had  been  no  boy  present  to  carry  his  clubs.  Yes,  this 
was  the  last  time  he'd  try  it  until  spring:  Peyton 
Morris,  who  had  married  Lee's  niece  and  was  at  least 
fourteen  years  his  junior,  had  been  justified  in  a  re 
fusal  which,  at  its  expression,  had  made  Lee  cross. 

At  worse  than  forty-five,  he  had  told  Morris  curtly, 
he  was  more  active  than  the  young  men  hardly  out  of 
the  universities.  To  this  Peyton  had  replied  that  un 
doubtedly  Lee  had  more  energy  than  he;  personally 
he  felt  as  old  as — as  Egypt.  Ridiculous,  Lee  decided, 
trying  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  he  might  continue 
playing  or  return,  beaten  by  November,  to  the  club 
house.  In  the  end,  with  numb  fingers,  he  picked  up 
his  ball,  and  walked  slowly  back  over  the  empty 

[9] 


,4  CYTHEREA 

course:;  :.The'.Wih^;;rt9tw,  was  behind  him,  and  increas 
ingly  comfortable -he;  grew-  reflective : 
/-The  compairisoh, . of  'Peyton  Morris's  age  with  his, 
recalling  the  fact,  to  be  precise,  of  his  forty-seven 
years,  created  a  vague  questioning  dissatisfaction. 
Suddenly  he  saw  himself — a  comfortable  body  in  a 
comfortable  existence,  a  happy  existence,  he  added 
sharply — objectively;  and  the  stout  figure  in  knicker 
bockers,  rough  stockings,  a  yellow  buckskin  jacket 
and  checked  cap  pulled  over  a  face  which,  he  felt,  was 
brightly  red,  surprised  and  a  little  annoyed  him.  In 
the  abrupt  appearance  of  this  image  it  seemed  that 
there  had  been  no  transitional  years  between  his 
slender  youth  and  the  present.  He  had  an  absurd 
momentary  impression  that  an  act  of  malicious  magic 
had  in  a  second  transformed  him  into  a  shape  decid 
edly  too  heavy  for  grace.  His  breathing,  where  the 
ground  turned  upward,  was  even  slightly  labored. 

It  was,  Lee  thought  with  all  the  intensity  of  an 
original  discovery,  devilish  unpleasant  to  grow  old ;  to 
die  progressively  on  one's  feet,  he  elaborated  the  fact. 
That  was  what  happened  to  a  man — his  liver  thick 
ened,  his  teeth  went,  his  veins  became  brittle  pipes  of 
lime.  Worse  than  all  that,  his  potency,  the  spirit  and 
heat  of  living,  met  without  any  renewal  its  inescapable 
winter.  This  might,  did,  occur  while  his  being  was 
rebellious  with  vain  hope.  Today,  in  spite  of  the 
slight  clogging  of  his  breath,  his  body's  loss  of  flex 
ibility,  his  imagination  was  as  vigorous,  as  curious,  as 

[10] 


CYTHEREA 

ever  .  .  .  take  that  nonsense  about  the  doll,  which,  in 
a  recalled  classical  allusion,  he  had  privately  named 
Cytherea.  Peyton  Morris  would  never  have  entered 
into  that! 

Lee  Randon,  on  one  of  his  infrequent  trips  to  New 
York,  had  seen  it  in  a  confectioner's  window  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  'and  instantly  it  had  captivated  his  attention, 
brought  him  to  a  halt.  The  doll,  beautifully  dressed 
in  the  belled  skirt  of  the  eighteen-forties,  wore  plum- 
colored  silk  with  a  bodice  and  wide  short  sleeves  of 
pale  yellow  and,  crossed  on  the  breast,  a  strip  of  black 
Spanish  lace  that  fell  to  the  hem  of  the  skirt.  It 
wasn't,  of  course,  the  clothes  that  attracted  him — he 
only  grew  conscious  of  them  perhaps  a  month  later — 
but  the  wilful  charm,  the  enigmatic  fascination,  of  the 
still  face.  The  eyes  were  long  and  half  closed  under 
finely  arched  brows,  there  was  a  minute  patch  at  the 
right  corner  of  a  pale  scarlet,  smiling  mouth;  a 
pointed  chin  marked  an  elusive  oval  beneath  black 
hair  drawn  down  upon  a  long  slim  neck,  hair  to  which 
was  pinned  an  odd  headdress  of  old  gilt  with,  at  the 
back,  pendent  ornamental  strands  of  gold-glass  beads. 

Insistently  conventional,  selectly  ordinary,  in  ap 
pearance,  the  stick  with  a  pig-skin  handle  hanging 
from  his  left  arm,  he  had  studied  the  doll  with  a  deep 
ening  interest.  Never  in  life,  he  told  himself,  had  he 
seen  a  wom'an  with  such  a  magnetic  and  disturbing 
charm.  Fixed  in  intent  regard  he  became  conscious 
that,  'Strangely,  rather  than  small  the  figure  seemed 


CYTHEREA 

diminished  by  a  distance  which  yet  left  every  feature 
clear.  With  this  he  grew  satirical  at  himself;  and, 
moving  resolutely  down  the  Avenue,  treated  his  absorp 
tion  with  ridicule.  But  the  vision  of  the  face,  the 
smile,  the  narrowed  eyes,  persisted  in  his  mind;  the 
truth  was  that  they  troubled  him;  and  within  three 
blocks  he  had  turned.  The  second  view  intensified 
rather  than  lessened  his  feeling,  and  he  walked  quickly 
into  the  shop  odorous  with  burned  sugar.  The  doll 
was  removed  from  the  window — it  had  come  from 
Paris,  he  learned — and,  after  a  single  covert  glance, 
he  bought  it,  for,  he  needlessly  informed  the  girl 
wrapping  it  in  an  unwieldy  light  package,  his 
daughter. 

To  his  secret  satisfaction,  Helena,  who  was  twelve, 
hadn't  been  strongly  prepossessed;  and  the  doll — 
though  Lee  Randon  no  longer  thought  of  it  as  merely 
that — left  downstairs,  had  been  finally  placed  on  the 
white  over-mantel  of  the  fireplace  by  the  dining-room 
door. 

There,  when  he  was  alone,  he  very  often  stopped  to 
gaze  at  the  figure;  and,  during  such  a  moment  of 
speculative  abstraction,  he  had,  from  the  memories  of 
early  reading,  called  her  Cytherea.  That,  Lee  re 
membered  vaguely,  was  the  Cytheranian  name  of  the 
mysterious  goddess  of  love,  Venus,  of  the  principle, 
the  passion,  of  life  stirring  in  plants  and  men.  But 
in  the  shape  above  him  it  had  been  strangely  modified 
from  an  apparently  original  purpose,  made  infinitely 

[12] 


CYTHEREA 

difficult  if  not  impossible  of  understanding.  His 
Cytherea  bore  the  traces,  the  results,  of  old  and  lost 
and  polished  civilizations;  there  was  about  her  even 
a  breath  of  immemorial  China.  It  mingled  with  a 
suggestion  of  Venice,  the  eighteenth  century  Venice 
of  the  princes  of  Naxos — how  curiously  she  brought 
back  tags  of  discarded  reading! — and  of  the  rococo 
Viennese  court.  This  much  he  grasped;  but  the 
secret  of  her  fascination,  of  what,  at  heart,  she  rep 
resented,  what  in  her  had  happened  to  love,  entirely 
escaped  him. 

Lee  was  interested  in  this,  he  reassured  his  normal 
intelligence,  because  really  it  bore  upon  him,  upon  the 
whole  of  his  married  life  with  Fanny.  He  wasn't, 
merely,  the  victim  of  a  vagrant  obsession,  the  tyranny 
of  a  threatening  fixed  idea.  No,  the  question  ad 
vanced  without  answer  by  Cytherea  was  not  confined 
to  her,  it  had  very  decidedly  entered  into  him,  and 
touched,  practically,  everyone  he  knew,  everyone,  that 
was,  who  had  a  trace  of  imagination.  Existence  had 
been  enormously  upset,  in  a  manner  at  once  incalcul 
able  and  clear,  by  the  late  war.  Why,  for  example,), 
the  present  spirit  of  restlessness  should  particularly 
affect  the  relation  of  men  and  women  he  couldn't  begin 
to  grasp.  Not,  he  added  immediately,  again,  that  it 
had  clouded  or  shaken  his  happiness. 

It  had  only  given  him  the  desire,  the  safe  neces 
sity,  to  comprehend  the  powerful  emotion  that  held 
Fanny  and  him  secure  against  any  accident  to  their 

[13] 


CYTHEREA 

lore.  To  their  love!  The  repetition,  against  his 
contrary  intention,  took  on  the  accent  of  a  challenge. 
However,  he  proceeded  mentally,  it  wasn't  the  un 
assailable  fact  that  was  challenged,  but  the  indefinable 
word  love.  Admiration,  affection,  passion,  were  clear 
in  their  meanings — but  love!  His  brow  contracted 
in  a  frown  spreading  in  a  shadowy  doubt  over  his 
face  when  he  saw  that  he  had  almost  reached  the  club 
house;  its  long  steep-pitched  bulk  lay  directly  across 
the  path  of  dusk,  approaching  from  the  east;  and  a 
ruddy  flicker  in  the  glass  doors  on  the  veranda  showed 
that  a  fire  had  been  lighted.  To  his  left,  down  over 
the  dead  sod  and  beyond  a  road,  he  could  see  the 
broad  low  faqade  of  his  house  with  its  terraced  lawn 
and  aged  stripped  maples.  There,  too,  a  window  was 
bright  on  the  first  floor:  probably  Fanny  was  hearing 
the  children's  lessons. 

That  cheerful  interior  he  completely  visualized: 
Fanny,  in  the  nicest  possible  attire,  sitting  in  the  curly- 
maple  rocking-chair,  her  slippered  feet — she  had  a 
premonition  of  rheumatism — elevated  on  the  col 
lapsible  stool  she  carried  about  with  her;  and  Helena 
and  Gregory  hanging  on  her  knees.  Gregory,  of 
course,  had  tomorrow's  task  easily  in  hand,  with 
another  star  for  a  day's  good  conduct  in  school;  but 
Helena,  shining  in  the  gold  and  flush  of  her  radiant 
inattention,  would  know  nothing.  Helena,  Lee  Ran- 
don  acknowledged,  spelled  atrociously.  If  it  weren't 

[14] 


CYTHEREA 

for  the  clubs  and  his  spiked  shoes  he'd  turn  and  go 
home  directly,  himself  supervise  the  children's  efforts 
at  education.  But  Fanny  did  it  much  better  than 
he;  Helena  and  Gregory  were  closer  to  her;  while 
they  volunteered  endless  personal  and  trivial  admis 
sions  to  her,  he  had  to  ask  them,  detail  by  detail, 
what  they  were  doing. 

After  he  had  changed  his  shoes  and  secured  the 
latticed  steel  door  of  his  locker  he  went  up  to  the  main 
room  of  the  clubhouse,  where,  on  the  long  divan 
before  the  open  fire,  he  found  Peyton  Morris  lounging 
with  Anette  Sherwin  by  a  low  tea  table.  The  hot 
water,  they  informed  Lee  comfortably,  was  cold,  in 
viting  him  by  implication  to  ring  for  more;  and  then 
they  returned  to  the  conversation  he  had  interrupted. 
Anette  said: 

"I  asked  her  from  Friday  till  Monday,  over  the 
dance,  you  see;  but  she  wired  she  couldn't  be  sure. 
They  are  going  to  begin  rehearsing  at  any  minute, 
and  then  shoot — it  is  shoot,  isn't  it? — the  picture. 
What  did  she  tell  you  at  the  Plaza?" 

"The  same  thing,"  Peyton  replied  moodily.  "I  only 
saw  her  for  a  scrappy  dinner;  she  couldn't  even  wait 
for  coffee,  but  rushed  up  to  a  conference  with  her 
director." 

They  were,  Lee  knew,  talking  about  Mina  Raff,  a 
friend  of  Anette's  earlier  summers  by  the  sea  who  Was 
beginning  to  be  highly  successful  in  the  more  serious 
moving  pictures.  He  had  met  her  a  number  of  years 

[IS] 


CYTHEREA 

ago,  in  Eastlake,  but  he  retained  no  clear  impression 
of  her;  and,  admitting  that  he  hadn't  gone  to  see  her 
in  a  picture,  wondered  aloud  at  her  sudden  fame. 
Peyton  Morris  glanced  at  him,  frowning;  he  seemed 
at  the  point  of  vigorous  speech,  then  said  nothing. 

"Mina  is  lovely  now,  Lee,"  Anette  spoke  in  his 
place;  "y°u  will  realize  that  at  once.  She's  like  a 
— a  wistful  April  moon,  or  corn  silk." 

"I  like  black  hair,"  Randon  asserted. 

"That's  amusing,  when  you  think  Fanny's  is  quite 
brown,"  Anette  replied.  "Whom  have  you  been  meet 
ing  with  black  hair?  There's  none  I  can  remember 
in  Eastlake." 

"There  isn't  anybody  in  particular,"  Lee  reassured 
her;  "it  is  just  an  idea  of  mine."  He  had  a  vision 
of  intense  black  hair  swept  about  an  enigmatic  still 
smile,  of  an  old  gilt  headdress.  "Mina  Raff  must 
have  developed  if  she  gets  half  the  pay  advertised." 

"She'll  get  twice  that  when  this  contract  expires," 
Peyton  put  in;  "and  that  will  be  increased  again.  No 
one  on  the  screen  can  touch  her."  He  made  these 
declarations  in  a  manner  both  shadowed  and  aggres 
sive.  Lee  observed  that  he  held  a  cigarette  in  one 
hand  and  a  match  in  the  other  with  no  effort  at  con 
junction. 

"Mina  simply  tells  you  everything,"  Anette  con 
tinued.  "If  she  comes  you  must  do  your  best.  It's 
perfectly  marvelous,  with  so  much  else,  that  she  even 

[16] 


CYTHEREA 

considers  it.  I  couldn't  budge  her  when  she  was 
practically  free." 

"How  is  Claire?"  Randon  abruptly  demanded. 

"She's  all  right,"  her  husband  returned;  "a  little 
offhand,  but  no  more  than  usual.  I  want  her  to  go 
to  the  West  Indies  and  take  Ira  but  she  won't  listen. 
Why  anyone  who  doesn't  have  to  stays  through  these 
rotten  winters  I  can't  imagine."  A  flaming  log 
brought  out  his  handsomely  proportioned  face,  the 
clear  grey  eyes,  the  light  carefully  brushed  hair 
and  stubborn  chin.  Peyton  was  a  striking  if  slightly 
sullen  appearing  youth — yet  he  must  be  on  the  mark 
of  thirty — and  it  was  undeniable  that  he  was  well 
thought  of  generally.  At  his  university,  Princeton, 
he  had  belonged  to  a  most  select  club ;  his  family,  his 
prospects,  even  his  present — junior  partner  in  a  young 
but  successful  firm  of  bond  brokers — were  beyond 
reproach.  Yet  Lee  Randon  was  aware  that  he  had 
never  completely  liked  Peyton. 

His  exterior  was  too  hard,  too  obviously  certain, 
to  allow  any  penetration  of  the  inevitable  human  and 
personal  irregularities  beneath.  It  might  be  possible 
that  he  was  all  of  a  piece  of  the  conventional  stereo 
typed  proprieties;  but  Lee  couldn't  imagine  Claire 
marrying  or  holding  to  a  man  so  empty,  or,  rather, 
so  dully  solid.  Claire  he  admired  without  reserva 
tion — a  girl  who  had  become  a  wife,  a  mother,  with 
no  loss  of  her  vivid  character.  Her  attitude  toward 

[17] 


CYTHEREA 

Ira,  now  four  years  old — wholly  different  from 
Fanny's  manner  with  her  children — was  lightly  humor 
ous;  publicly  she  treated  her  obligations  as  jokes;  but 
actually,  Lee  knew,  she  was  indefatigable. 

This  was  a  type  of  high  spirits,  of  highly  bred 
courage,  to  which  he  was  entirely  delivered.  Fanny 
was  a  perfect  mother,  a  remarkably  fine  wife,  but  she 
bore  an  evident  sense  of  her  responsibilities.  She 
wasn't  so  good-looking  as  Claire,  who  at  times  was 
almost  beautiful;  but  Fanny  had  a  very  decided  kind 
of  attractiveness  which  Lee  Randon  wished  she  would 
more  bring  out.  She  was  a  little  too  serious.  He 
didn't  actually  want  her  to  drink  and  swear  in  public, 
that  wouldn't  become  her;  but  something  of  that  sort, 
he  felt,  might  help  her.  At  times,  when  she  had  had 
more  than  her  customary  cocktail  and  a  half,  he  saw 
in  her  a  promise  of  what  he  desired. 

God  knew  he  wasn't  criticizing  Fanny,  he  hastened 
to  reassure  even  himself:  how  could  he,  in  the  face 
of  all  she  had  brought  him — the  freedom  of  money 
and  undeviating  devotion  and  their  two  splendid 
children?  His  house  was  as  absolute  in  its  restrained 
luxury  of  taste  as  was  the  unfailing  attention  to  his 
comfort.  It  was  purely  for  her  own  happiness  that 
he  wanted  her  to  be,  well — a  little  gayer.  She  was 
already  developing  a  tendency  to  sit  serenely  on  the 
veranda  of  the  club  through  the  dances,  to  encourage 
others  rather  than  take  an  active  part  herself. 

Expanding  in  the  glow  of  the  fire  and  hot  strong 

[18] 


CYTHEREA 

tea  he  forgot  all  about  his  uncomfortable  premoni 
tions  of  age.  Now  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never 
been  younger  in  the  sense  of  being  merely  alive ;  after 
the  tonic  of  the  cold  his  nerves  were  strung  like  steel, 
his  blood  was  in  a  full  tide.  Lee  was  aware  of  a 
marked  sense  of  pleasure  at  the  closeness  to  him  of 
Anette;  settling  back,  she  willingly,  voluntarily,  leaned 
her  firm  elastic  body  against  him;  her  legs,  as  evident 
in  woolen  stockings  as  his  own,  were  thrust  frankly 
out  toward  the  flames. 

"I'll  meet  her,"  he  heard  Peyton  say,  and  realized 
that  they  were  still  talking  about  Mina  Raff.  She 
wouldn't  attract  him,  Lee  Randon,  in  the  least,  he 
was  sure  of  that  .  .  .  no  wistful  April  moon.  What, 
then,  did  engage  him?  He  was  unable  to  say,  he 
didn't  know.  It  was  something  intangible,  a  charm 
without  definite  form;  and  his  thoughts  returned  to 
Cytherea — if  he  could  grasp  the  secret  of  her  fascina 
tion  he  would  be  able  to  settle  a  great  many  disturb 
ing  feelings  and  needs.  Yes,  what  she  mutely  ex 
pressed  was  what,  beneath  his  comprehension,  he  had 
come  to  long  for.  He  had  never  recognized  it  as  the 
property  of  any  woman  nor  satisfied  it  in  himself. 

Here,  certainly,  his  loyalty,  his  affection  for  Fanny, 
weren't  damaged;  he  was,  he  thought, beyond  assault 
there.  It  was  only  that,  together  with  his  fidelity  to 
his  wife,  an  increasing  uneasiness  possessed  him,  an 
unabated  separate  interest  in  life,  in  women.  He  was 
searching  for  something  essential,  he  couldn't  dis- 

[19] 


CYTHEREA 

cover  what;  but,  dismissing  the  problem  of  how  he'd 
act  if  he  found  it,  the  profound  conviction  remained 
that  when  his  hopeful  quest  was  over  then  indeed 
he'd  be  old,  finished,  drained.  Lee  Randon  secretly 
cherished,  jealously  guarded,  that  restless,  vital  reach- 
ing^Jor  the  indefinable  perfection  of  his  hidden 
desire.  For  a  flash  it  was  almost  perceptible  in  Anette, 
her  head  half-buried  in  the  darkness  of  the  divan 
behind  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  breasts  in  a  close 
sweater  of  Jaeger  wool. 

She  stirred,  smiled  at  him  absently,  and,  with  Pey 
ton's  assistance,  rose.  The  long  room,  unlighted  ex 
cept  for  the  fire,  was  lost  in  obscurity;  the  blackness 
against  the  window-panes  was  absolute.  Outside, 
however,  Lee  found  a  lingering  glint  of  day;  the  snow 
had  stopped,  but  the  wind  had  increased  and  was  blow 
ing  over  the  open  expanse  of  the  course  in  the  high 
gaunt  key  of  winter.  His  house,  across  the  road, 
showed  regular  cheerful  rectangles  of  orange  illumina 
tion:  he  always  returned  to  it  with  a  feeling  of  relief 
and  pleasant  anticipation,  but  he  was  very  far  from 
sharing  Fanny's  passionate  attachment  to  their  home. 
Away — on  past  trips  to  the  Michigan  iron  ore  fields 
and  now  on  shorter  journeys  to  eastern  financial 
centers — he  never  thought  of  it,  he  was  absorbed  by 
business. 

But  in  that  he  wasn't  alone,  it  was  true  of  the 
majority  of  successful  men  he  knew  over  forty;  they 

[20] 


CYTHEREA 

saw  their  wives,  their  homes,  they  thought  of  their 
families,  only  in  the  intervals  of  their  tyrannical  oc 
cupations.  He,  in  reality,  was  rather  better  there 
than  most,  for  he  occasionally  stayed  out  at  Eastlake 
to  play  golf;  he  was  locally  interested,  active,  in  the 
small  town  of  Fanny's  birth.  Other  men — 

He  made  a  calculation  of  how  much  time  a  practis 
ing  lawyer  saw  his  wife:  certainly  he  was  out  of  the 
house  before  nine — Lee  knew  lawyers  who  were  in 
their  offices  at  seven-thirty — and  he  was  hardly  back 
until  after  five.  Nine  hours  absent  daily  through 
the  week;  and  it  was  probable  that  he  was  in  bed  by 

*  eleven,  up  at  seven — seven  hours'  sleep ;  of  the  eight 

•  hours  left  in  twenty-four  half  if  not  two-thirds  of  the 
Sundays  and  some  part  of  the  others  were  devoted 
to  a  recreation ;  and  this  took  no  account  of  the  brief 
cases  brought  home,  the  thought  and  contributary  pre 
occupations. 

More  than  that,  his  mind,  his  hopes  and  planning, 
were  constantly  directed  toward  his  legal  concerns; 
the  wife  of  such  a  man  filled  about  the  position  of 
his  golf  or  billiards.  Lee  Randon  had  never  an 
alyzed  this  before,  and  the  result  amazed  him.  With 
younger  men,  of  course,  it  was  different;  they  had 
more  time  and  interest  for  their  homes,  their  wives 
and  children.  Everything  constantly  shifted,  changed, 
perished;  all,  that  was,  but  the  unintelligible  spurring 
need  beyond  any  accomplishment. 

In  him  it  was  almost  as  though  there  were — or, 
[21] 


CYTHEREA 

perhaps,  had  been — two  distinct,  opposed  processes 
of  thought,  two  different  personalities,  a  fact  still 
admirably  illustrated  by  his  private  interest  in  the 
doll,  in  Cytherea.  Much  younger  he  had  been  fond  of 
music,  of  opera  and  then  symphony  concerts,  and  his 
university  years  had  been  devoted  to  a  wide  indiscrimi 
nate  reading:  sitting  until  morning  with  college  men 
of  poetic  tendencies,  he  had  discussed  the  intricacies 
of  conduct  in  the  light  of  beauty  rather  than  prudence. 
This  followed  him  shyly  into  the  world,  the  offices 
of  the  Magnolia  Iron  Works ;  where,  he  had  told  him 
self  optimistically,  he  was  but  finding  a  temporary 
competence.  What,  when  he  should  be  free  to  follow 
his  inclination,  he'd  do,  Lee  never  particularized; 
it  was  in  the  clouds  nebulous  and  bright,  and  ac 
companied  by  music.  His  dream  left  him  impercep 
tibly,  its  vagueness  killed  partly  by  the  superior  reality 
of  pig  iron  and  ore  and  partly  because  he  never  had 
anyone  with  whom  to  talk  it  over;  he  could  find  no 
sympathy  to  keep  it  alive. 

That  it  wasn't  very  robust  was  evident;  and  yet, 
throughout  his  youth,  it  had  been  his  main  source  of 
incentive.  No  one,  in  the  Magnolia  works,  knew  the 
difference  between  the  Glucks,  Alma  and  Christopher, 
nor  read  anything  but  the  most  current  of  magazines. 
At  intervals  Lee  had  found  a  woman  who  responded 
to  the  inner  side  of  him,  and  together  they  swept  into 
an  aesthetic  emotional  debauch;  but  they  came  in 
evitably,  in  the  surrounding  ugliness  of  thought  and 

[22] 


CYTHEREA 

ascribed  motives,  to  humiliating  and  ugly  ends;  and 
he  drifted  with  increasing  rapidity  to  his  present 
financial  and  material  sanity. 

What  remained  of  the  other  was  hardly  more  than 
a  rare  accelerated  heart-beat  at  a  chord  of  music  like 
the  memory  of  a  lost  happiness,  or  at  the  sea  shim 
mering  with  morning.  He  never  spoke  of  it  now, 
not  even  to  Fanny;  although  it  was  possible  that  he 
might  be  doing  her  understanding  an  injustice. 
Fanny,  generally,  was  a  woman  in  whom  the  best  of 
sense  triumphed;  Fanny  was  practical.  It  was  she 
who  saw  that  the  furnace  pipes  were  inspected,  the 
chimney  flues  cleaned  before  winter;  and  who  had 
the  tomato  frames  properly  laid  away  in  the  stable. 
Problems  of  drainage,  of  controversies  with  the  neigh 
bors,  were  instinctively  brought  to  her,  and  she  met 
and  disposed  of  them  with  an  unfailing  vigorous  good 
judgment. 

A  remarkable  companion,  he  told  himself;  he  had 
been  a  fortunate  man.  She  was  at  once  conventional 
and  an  individual:  Fanny  never,  for  example,  wore 
the  underclothes  of  colored  crepe  de  chines,  the  elab 
orate  trifles,  Lee  saw  in  the  shop  windows,  nightgowns 
of  sheer  exposure  and  candy-like  ribbons;  hers  were 
always  of  fine  white  cambric,  scalloped,  perhaps,  or 
with  chaste  embroidery,  but  nothing  more.  Neither 
did  she  use  perfumes  of  any  sort,  there  was  no  array 
of  ornamental  bottles  on  her  dressing-table,  no  sachet 
among  her  handkerchiefs,  her  cambric  was  not  laid 

[23] 


CYTHEREA 

in  scented  flannel.  Her  dressing,  a  little  severe,  per 
haps — she  liked  tailored  suits  with  crisp  linen  waists 
and  blue  serge  with  no  more  than  a  touch  of  color — was 
otherwise  faultless  in  choice  and  order;  and  it  might 
be  that  she  was  wholly  wise:  Fanny  was  thin  and, 
for  a  woman,  tall,  with  square  erectly  held  shoulders. 
Her  face  was  thin,  too,  almost  bony,  and  that  mag 
nified,  emphasized,  the  open  bright  blueness  of  her 
eyes;  all  her  spirit,  her  integrity  and  beauty,  were 
gathered  in  them;  her  hair  was  pale  and  quite  scanty. 

Yes,  Fanny's  eyes  were  her  principal  attraction, 
they  were  forever  startling,  contrasted  with  the  rest, 
not  only  remarkable  in  shade  but,  as  well,  in  light;  in 
her  quick  unreasoning  tempers,  the  only  perceptible 
flaw  of  her  character,  they  sparkled  with  brilliancy. 
The  tempers,  Lee  decided,  descending  the  narrow 
stony  road  from  the  club-house  to  his  gate,  were  an 
unavoidable  part  of  her  special  qualities:  her  quick 
decisiveness,  her  sharp  recognitions  of  right  and  her 
obdurate  condemnation  of  wrong — these  distinctions 
were  never  obscured  in  Fanny — necessitated  a  finality 
of  judgment  open  to  anger  at  any  contrary  position. 
Aside  from  that  she  was  as  secure,  as  predictable,  as 
any  heavenly  orbit;  her  love  for  him,  beginning  before 
marriage,  had  quietly  and  constantly  increased;  her 
usual  mood  was  moulded  to  his  need;  nothing  had 
ever  contested  the  supremacy  of  his  place  with  her. 

Lee  swung  open  the  white  wicket  that  broke  the 
middle  of  his  border  hedge  and  went  up  the  path  over 

[24] 


CYTHEREA 

the  broad  lawn;  the  house,  an  admirable  copy  of 
locally  colonial  dwellings,  was  a  yellow  stucco,  with 
a  porch  on  his  left  and  the  dining-room  at  the  extreme 
right.  Beyond  the  porch  was  the  square  of  the  formal 
garden,  indistinguishable  at  this  season,  and  the 
garage,  the  driveway,  were  hidden  at  the  back.  He 
mounted  the  broad  steps  of  field  stone  at  the  terrace,, 
but,  in  place  of  going  directly  in  under  the  main  por 
tico,  turned  aside  to  the  porch,  past  the  dim  bare 
forms  of  the  old  maples.  Just  as  he  had  anticipated, 
the  glass  door  showed  him  Fanny  sitting  in  the  maple 
slatted-back  rocking-chair ;  Gregory,  in  blue,  was  pres 
ent,  but  Helena  not  to  be  seen. 

His  wife's  hands  were  lying  idly  in  her  lap,  and 
she  was  gazing  into  nothingness  with  an  expression  he 
had  never  before  noticed,  there  was  a  faint  troubled 
doubt  on  her  brow,  a  questioning  expression  about  her 
eyes.  As  he  stood  momentarily  quiet  he  saw  her 
hands  slowly  clasp  until  he  felt  that  they  were  rigid, 
and  her  mouth  became  pinched;  her  face  seemed 
actually  hard.  Gregory  spoke  to  her,  with  his  fat 
fingers  on  her  sleeve,  but  she  made  no  reply,  paid  no 
attention  to  him.  Lee  could  hear  Gregory's  demand 
ing  voice;  and  then,  gathering  herself,  Fanny  sighed 
deeply  and  smiled  at  her  boy.  She  was  wearing  her 
pearls,  her  rings  sparkled  in  glittering  prisms;  and, 
as  he  opened  the  door,  Lee  Randon  wondered  if  he  had 
forgotten  an  engagement  to  go  out  for  dinner? 
•  •«..••• 
[25] 


CYTHEREA 

)'  He  asked  at  once  if  this  were  so,  but  found  that 
they  were  staying  at  home.  She  regarded  him  still, 
he  realized,  a  little  withdrawn  in  the  abstraction  he 
had  surprised.  This,  because  it  was  so  uncommon, 
disturbed  him,  and  he  demanded  what  was  worrying 
her. 

"Nothing,  really.  What  made  you  suppose  I  was 
bothered?"  Her  reply  was  instinctive;  and  then, 
after  a  pause,  she  continued,  more  insecurely,  "I  was 
only  thinking  about  some  things.  .  .  .  Lee,"  she  in 
quired,  "you  love  me  very  much,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  spoke  almost  impatiently. 

"That  is  all  I  have,  you  see,"  she  admitted;  "and 
that  was  what  was  in  my  mind.  The  other  women 
I  know  are  so  different;  they  seem  to  have  so  many 
more  interests  than  I,  and  to  care  less  for  them  than 
I  do  for  my  one.  It  is  exactly  as  though  I  belonged 
before  the  war  and  they  came  afterwards.  It  is  true 
— I  am  old-fashioned.  Well,  I  don't  care  if  you 
don't!  But,  just  the  same,  it's  a  problem;  I  don't 
want  to  be  out  of  the  times  or  narrow;  and  yet  I  can't, 
I  don't  know  how,  and  I  honestly  don't  want  to, 
change.  • 

"It  wouldn't  be  any  better  if  I  smoked  more  ciga 
rettes  or  drank  more  gin,  that  would  be  silly."  Lee 
was  startled  by  the  similarity  of  her  words  to  his 
unformed  thought.  "No  one  likes  fun  better  than 
I  do,  but  the  fun  now  is  so  different,"  her  voice  had 
the  sound  of  a  wail,  "it's  nothing  but  legs  and  getting 

[26] 


CYTHEREA 

kissed  by  anybody  but  your  husband.  I  don't  want 
other  men  to  kiss  me,  Lee,  only  you.  And  I  want 
you  to  be  glad  about  that,  to  care  for  it  more  than 
anything  else.  You  do,  don't  you?" 

Again  she  hesitated,  and  again  he  assured  her,  in 
a  species  of  annoyance,  of  his  feeling. 

"It's  because  I  adore  you,"  Fanny  insisted;  "it 
may  be  awfully  foolish  and  ark-like  to  say,  but  you're 
all  I  want,  absolutely."  Her  manner  grew  indignant. 
"Some  women  at  tea  today  laughed  at  me.  They  did 
nothing  but  describe  how  they  held  their  husbands' 
affections;  actually  that,  as  though  it  were  difficult, 
necessary;  the  details  were  sickening,  and  reminded 
me  of  that  old  joke  about  leaving  off  your  wedding 
ring.  It  was  all  too  horrid!  And,  underneath,  they 
were  bitter  and  vindictive,  yes — they  were  uneasy, 
afraid  of  something,  of  somebody,  and  treated  every 
good-looking  woman  as  a  dangerous  enemy.  I 
couldn't  live  like  that,  I'd  rather  die:  I  told  them  they 
didn't  trust  the  men  they  were  married  to." 

"What  did  they  say  to  that?"  Lee  asked,  standing 
in  the  door. 

"Agreed  with  me.  Alice  Lucian  said  I  was  damned 
well  right  she  didn't  trust  hers.  She  loved  him,  too, 
but  she  didn't  propose  to  take  any  liberties  with  the 
sanctity  of  her  bed.  They  all  thought  Claire  was  a 
fool  to  let  Peyton  see  Mina  Raff  like  that  in  New 
York — the  way  to  avoid  trouble  was  to  make  sure  it 
couldn't  begin.  Has  Peyton  said  anything  to  you 

[27] 


CYTHEREA 

about   Mina   Raff?     She   is   perfectly   stunning,    of 
course,  and  an  actress." 

"Not  to  me,"  Lee  told  her;  then  he  recalled  the 
prolonged  attention  to  Mina  Raff  on  the  divan  at 
the  Club.  "What  if  he  is  crazy  about  her?"  he 
observed  indifferently;  "it  can't  come  to  anything. 
It  won't  hurt  Claire  if  Peyton  sits  out  a  few  dances 
with  a  public  idol." 

"I  shouldn't  think  so  either,  but  the  others  were  so 
positive.  I  just  told  them  how  happy  we  are  together 
and  how  devoted  you  are — fifteen  marvelous  years, 
Lee.  It  was  plain  that  they  envied  us."  She  rose  and 
came  close  to  him,  her  widely-opened  candid  blue 
eyes  level  with  his  gaze.  "Not  the  slightest  atom  must 
ever  come  between  us,"  she  said;  "I  couldn't  stand 
it,  I've  been  spoiled.  I  won't  have  to,  will  I,  Lee? 
Lee,  kiss  me." 

He  met  the  clinging  thin  passionate  purity  of  her 
mouth.  "No,  certainly  not,  never,"  he  muttered,  ex 
traordinarily  stirred.  He  asserted  to  himself  that 
he  would  make  no  such  fatal  mistake.  The  other,  the 
errant  fancy,  was  no  more  than  a  vagrant  unimpor 
tant  impulse.  "Don't  let  these  women,  who  cat 
around,  upset  you;  probably  they  are  thinking  not  so 
much  about  their  husbands  as  they  are  of  themselves. 
I've  seen  that  Alice  Lucian  parked  out  in  a  limousine 
during  a  dance,  and  she  was  going  right  to  it." 

"It  is  foolish  of  me,"  Fanny  agreed,  "and  not  com 
plimentary  to  our  love.  I  have  kept  you  so  long  over 

[28] 


CYTHEREA 

nothing  that  you  will  be  late  for  dinner.  I  don't 
care!"  Her  manner  bore  a  foreign  trace  of  abandon 
in  its  radiant  happiness;  and,  with  spread  fingers 
on  his  back,  she  propelled  him  toward  the  stairs. 
But,  in  their  room,  he  failed  to  change  his  clothes: 
he  sat  lost  in  a  concentration  of  thought,  of  summoned 
determination. 

The  interior,  with  dotted  white  Swiss  curtains  at 
the  large  windows,  both  an  anomaly  and  an  improve 
ment  on  the  architectural  origin,  was  furnished  largely 
in  dull  rubbed  mahogany,  the  beds  had  high  slender 
fluted  posts,  snowy  ruffled  canopies  and  counterpanes 
stitched  in  a  primitive  design.  He  possessed  an  inlaid 
chest  of  drawers  across  from  the  graceful  low-boy 
used  by  Fanny  as  a  dressing-table;  there  was  a  bed 
stand  with  brass-tipped  feet,  a  Duncan  Fyfe,  she 
declared;  split  hickory  chairs  painted  a  dark  claret 
color;  small  hooked  rugs  on  the  waxed  floor;  and, 
against  the  mirror  on  his  chest  of  drawers,  a  big  photo 
graph  of  Fanny  and  the  two  children  in  the  window- 
seat  of  the  living  room. 

A  dinner  shirt  lay  in  readiness  on  the  bed,  the 
red  morocco  boxes  that  held  his  moonstone  cuff  links 
and  studs  were  evident,  but  he  ignored  those  provisions 
for  his  ease.  There  was  a  strange,  a  different  and  un 
accountable,  uneasiness,  a  marked  discomfort,  at  his 
heart.  The  burden  of  it  was  that  he  had  a  very 
great  deal  of  which,  it  might  well  be,  he  wasn't  worthy. 
In  Fanny,  he  told  himself,  as  against  everything  else 

[29] 


CYTHEREA 

discoverable,  he  had  the  utmost  priceless  security  life 
could  offer.  Outside  the  brightness  and  warmth  and 
charm  of  their  house  the  November  night  was  slashed 
by  a  black  homeless  wind. 

Her  sureness,  undeniably,  was  founded  on  the  in 
alterable  strength  of  her  convictions;  against  that 
sustaining  power,  it  occurred  to  him,  the  correctness 
of  her  beliefs  might  be  relatively  unimportant.  Could 
any  more  be  required  of  a  faith  than  its  ability,  like 
a  life  preserver  on  water,  to  hold  an  individual  safe 
from  sinking?  Strangely  enough,  the  one  or  two 
greatly  powerful  men  with  whom  he  had  come  in  con 
tact  were  like  Fanny,  prejudiced,  closed  against  all 
opinions  contrary  to  their  own,  impatient  of  doubt 
and  self-questioning. 

Fanny,  Lee  Randon  recognized,  was  indefatigable 
in  her  efforts  to  form  him  in  her  own  unassailable 
mould;  she  insisted  in  the  most  trivial,  and  often 
tiresome,  ways,  that  he  should  reach  and  maintain 
her  standards.  He  had  been  in  return,  more  often 
than  not,  rebellious,  humorously  or  with  a  suspicion 
of  annoyance;  but  now,  suddenly,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  just  that,  the  limitation  of  Fanny's  determined  at 
titude,  was,  perhaps,  the  most  desirable  thing  possible. 
If  it  were  possible  of  acquisition!  Such  a  certainty 
wasn't  his  naturally — those  two  diverse  strains  in  him 
again;  but  one,  he  added,  had  been  practically 
obliterated.  The  first  step  in  such  a  course  of  prac 
tical  wisdom  would  be  to  put  Cytherea  out  of  his  life, 

[30] 


CYTHEREA 

dislodge  her  finally  from  his  thoughts,  and  the  over 
mantel  downstairs.  This,  diplomatically  with  the 
doll,  he  could,  of  course,  do  now,  whenever  he  chose. 
With  that,  and  whatever  it  represented,  accomplished, 
Lee  had  a  premonition,  his  life  would  be  secure, 
placid. 

The  disturbance  caused  by  Fanny's  searching 
tenderness  subsided  a  little;  and,  as  it  dwindled,  the 
other  restlessness,  the  sense,  yes — of  wasted  possibili 
ties  and  years,  once  more  grew  evident.  By  God,  if 
Fanny  insisted  on  being,  at  any  cost,  herself,  it  would 
be  unreasonable  in  her  not  to  recognize  the  same  need 
in  him.  But  Lee  was  obliged  to  add  the  old  and 
familiar  and  increasingly  heavy  provision:  any 
individuality  of  being,  of  desire,  must  not  be  allowed 
to  impair  the  validity  of  their  common  existence,  their 
marriage.  Fanny  had  an  advantage  over  him  there, 
for  all  her  aspirations  turned  inward  to  their  love, 
their  home  and  children ;  and  his  ...  but  if  he  knew 
their  goal  he  could  have  beaten  life. 

Footfalls  approaching  over  the  hall — the  maid  to 
tell  him  dinner  was  served — brought  him  sharply  to 
his  feet,  and  he  hurried  down  to  where  Fanny,  who 
liked  to  do 'such  things,  had  finished  lighting  the 
candles  on  the  table.  In  reply  to  the  glance  of  inter 
rogation  at  his  inappropriate  clothes  he  explained 
that,  trivially  occupied,  he  had  been  unaware  of  the 
flight  of  time.  Throughout  dinner  Fanny  and  he  said 

[31] 


CYTHEREA 

little;  their  children  had  a  supper  at  six  o'clock,  and 
at  seven  were  sent  to  bed ;  so  there  were  commonly  but 
two  at  the  other  table.  He  had  an  occasional  glimpse 
of  his  wife,  behind  a  high  centerpiece  of  late  chrys 
anthemums,  the  color  of  bright  copper  pennies  and 
hardly  larger;  and  he  was  struck,  as  he  was  so  often, 
by  Fanny's  youthful  appearance;  but  that  wasn't, 
he  decided,  so  much  because  of  her  actual  person — 
although  since  her  marriage  she  had  shown  practically 
no  change — as  from  a  spirit  of  rigorous  purity;  she 
was,  in  spite  of  everything,  Lee  realized,  completely 
virginal  in  mind. 

The  way  she  sat  and  walked,  with  her  elbows  close 
to  her  body  and  her  high  square  shoulders  carried 
forward,  gave  her  an  air  of  eagerness,  of  youthful 
hurry.  Perhaps  she  grew  more  easily  tired  now  than 
formerly;  her  face  then  seemed  thinner  than  ever,  the 
temples  sunken  and  cheek-bones  evident,  and  her  eyes 
startling  in  their  size  and  blueness  and  prominence. 
She  kept,  too,  the  almost  shrinking  delicacy  of  a  girl's 
mind:  Fanny  never  repeated  stories  not  sufficiently 
saved  from  the  gross  by  their  humor.  Her  private 
severity  with  women  who  did,  he  felt,  was  too  extreme. 
The  truth  was  that  she  regarded  the  mechanism  of 
nature  with  distaste;  Fanny  was  never  lost,  never 
abandoned,  in  passion — Lee  Randon  had  wondered  if 
she  regarded  that  as  more  than  a  duty,  the  discharge 
of  a  moral,  if  not  actually  a  religious,  obligation.  It 
was  certain  that  she  was  clothed  in  a  sense  of  bodily 

[32] 


CYTHEREA 

shame,  of  instinctive  extreme  modesty,  which  no 
situation  or  degree  of  feeling  could  destroy. 

He  understood,  however,  that  he  could  not  have 
Fanny  as  she  was,  immeasurably  fine,  without  accept 
ing  all  the  implications  of  her  character — other 
qualities,  which  he  might  desire,  would  as  well  bring 
their  defects.  Lee  didn't  for  a  second  want  a  wife 
like  Anette.  His  admiration  for  Fanny  was,  funda 
mentally,  enormous.  He  was  glad  that  there  was 
nothing  hidden  in  his  life  which  could  seriously 
disturb  her;  nothing,  that  was,  irrevocable.  Which 
had  he  been — wise  or  fortunate,  or  only  trivial  ?  Per 
haps,  everything  considered,  merely  fortunate;  and  he 
wondered  how  she  would  have  met  an  infidelity  of 
his?  He  put  his  question  in  the  past  tense  because 
now,  Lee  congratulated  himself,  all  the  danger  was 
passed:  forty-seven,  with  responsibilities  that  in 
creased  every  month  in  importance,  and  swiftly 
growing  children;  the  hair  above  his  ears  was  patched 
with  grey. 

"I  don't  like  that  centerpiece,"  Fanny  observed, 
"I  can't  see  you.  Still,  it's  as  well,  I  suppose,  since 
you  didn't  change.  You  look  so  much  better  in  dark 
clothes,  Lee,  thinner." 

"You  shouldn't  make  me  so  comfortable." 

" You'd  see  to  that,  anyhow;  men  always  do. 
Honestly,  Alice  Lucian  was  a  scream  this  afternoon, 
she  said  that  she  hated  and  distrusted  all  men;  yet 
I'm  sure  no  one  could  be  more  considerate  or  depend- 

[33] 


CYTHEREA 

able  than  Warner.  Now,  if  she  had  a  husband  like 
George  Willard— " 

"What  would  you  do,"  Lee  asked,  "if  I  spent  my 
spare  time  with  the  very  young  ones?" 

"I'd  have  a  doctor  see  you,"  she  replied  coolly. 
"What  in  the  world  put  that  in  your  head?  Haven't 
you  everything  here  a  man  could  want?  That's 
exactly  what  they  were  talking  about;  it's  so — so 
idiotic.  Those  younger  girls  ought  to  be  smacked  and 
put  to  bed,  with  their  one-piece  swimming-suits  and 
shimmying.  They  give  a  very  misleading  impres 


sion." 


He  lost  the  course  of  her  speech  in  considering  how 
little  of  themselves  women,  old  and  young,  showed 
each  other.  If  Fanny  meant,  if  she  for  a  moment 
thought,  where  the  girls  they  were  discussing  came  in, 
that  there  was  smoke  without  fire.  ...  It  was  all 
devilish  strange,  the  present  day,  disturbing.  The 
young  men,  since  the  war,  had  grown  sober,  and  the 
older  men  resembled  George  Willard.  The  exploding 
of  so  much  powder,  the  release  of  such  naked  passions, 
had  over-thrown  the  balance  of  conduct  and  pressure. 
How  fortunate,  he  thought  again,  he  was  in  having 
Fanny. 

They  moved  into  the  enclosure  by  the  fire-place, 
where  Cytherea  was  remote  in  shadow  against  the 
chimney,  and  through  the  hall  to  the  living  room  for 
coffee.  His  wife  placed  the  portable  stool  under  her 
feet,  and  silence  enveloped  them.  At  intervals  the 

[34] 


CYTHEREA 

clear  treble  of  the  children's  voices  was  audible  from 
above,  and  once  Fanny  called  up  for  them  to  be  quiet. 
The  room  was  large,  it  filled  that  end  of  the  lower 
floor,  and  Lee's  gaze  idly  rested  on  the  smoke  of  his 
cigar,  veiling  the  grand  piano  in  the  far  corner. 
There  were  no  overhead  lights,  the  plugs  for  the  lamps 
were  set  in  the  baseboard,  and  the  radiance  was 
pleasantly  diffused,  warm  and  subdued:  the  dull 
immaculately  white  paint  of  the  bookshelves  on  his 
left,  silver  frames  on  a  table,  harmonious  fabrics  and 
spots  of  color,  consciously  and  sub-consciously  spread 
a  restful  pattern.  In  reply  to  his  comment  Fanny 
acknowledged  that  she  had  seen  the  snow;  she  hated 
winter,  she  proceeded,  and  thought  that  if  it  turned  out 
as  bad  as  last  year  they  might  get  away  to  Cuba  and 
see  Daniel. 

Daniel  was  Lee's  brother,  four  years  his  junior,  an 
administrador  of  a  sugar  estancia  in  the  Province  of 
Camagiiey;  a  man  who,  absorbed  in  his  crops  and  his 
adopted  Spanish-tropical  civilization,  rarely  returned 
to  the  United  States.  This  projected  trip  to  Cuba 
they  had  discussed  for  many  Novembers;  every  year 
Fanny  and  he  promised  each  other  that,  early  in 
February,  they  would  actually  go;  and  preparatory 
letters  were  exchanged  with  Daniel  Randon;  but  it 
always  came  to  nothing.  Either  it  was  impossible 
for  Fanny  to  leave  the  children,  the  house,  or  the 
servants,  or  Lee's  affairs  were  in  need  of  close 
supervision. 

[35] 


CYTHEREA 

Suddenly  it  annoyed  him  to  discuss  again,  uselessly, 
Camagiiey;  it  had  become  only  a  vain  pretence,  a 
sustained  mirage,  of  escape  from  disagreeable  days. 
While  it  was  hot  in  Cuba,  Daniel  maintained,  the 
trade  wind  coming  with  evening  made  the  nights  cool ; 
it  was  far  more  comfortable,  summer  and  winter,  at 
La  Quinta  than  in  Eastlake.  Cuba,  he  made  it  seem, 
Havana  and  the  colonias  of  cane,  the  coast  and  the 
interior,  was  a  place  with  none  of  the  drawbacks  of  a 
northern  land  or  society;  there  were,  certainly,  con 
ventions — the  Spanish  were  a  very  punctilious  people 
— but  they  operated  in  a  conveniently  definite,  Daniel 
might  almost  say  a  sensible  masculine,  manner.  He 
had  not  gone  into  any  further  detail,  but  had  sunk  into 
his  celebrated  immobility  of  expression.  Lee,  there 
fore,  had  drawn  his  own,  natural,  conclusions;  he  had 
come  to  regard  Cuba  in  the  same  light  as  that  of  the 
early  Castilian  adventurers — an  El  Dorado,  but  of 
freedom  rather  than  gold. 

A  perverse  restlessness  settled  upon  him,  and  he  put 
down  his  coffee  cup  abruptly;  the  contentment  in  his 
surroundings  vanished.  Lee  wanted  to  be  somewhere 
else,  see  something  different,  not  so — so  tranquil,  so 
complacently  delivered  to  the  uneventful.  Fanny,  he 
told  himself  resentfully,  would  be  satisfied  to  sit 
exactly  where  she  was  for  a  year.  She  met  his  fleet 
scrutiny  with  a  faint  smile.  Her  face  wouldn't  be 
greatly  changed  by  old  age,  by  death.  She  was  like 
that,  inside  and  out.  Whirling  ungracious  fancies 

[36] 


CYTHEREA 

passed  through  his  brain.  He  shook  his  head,  and 
Fanny  instantly  demanded,  "What  is  it,  Lee,  what  is 
worrying  you?"  Nothing,  he  replied,  but  she  con 
tinued  to  study  him  until,  giving  it  up,  she  turned  to 
the  approaching  dance ;  there  would  be  a  dinner  at  the 
Club  before  it,  and  forty  people  from  out  of  town  had 
accepted.  They  must  all  have  a  perfect  time,  she 
declared.  Gregory  could  be  heard  laughing,  and, 
with  a  sense  of  relief,  of  escape,  he  volunteered  to  go 
up  and  see  what  kept  the  children  roused.  He  would 
only  make  them  worse,  Fanny  observed,  he  was  as 
fidgety  as  Helena;  but  her  tone  carried  to  him  her 
compelling  affection. 

The  darkened  room  where  Helena  and  Gregory 
slept  held  a  cold  glimmering  whiteness;  and  the  light 
he  switched  on  showed  a  most  sanitary  bareness  and 
two  severe  iron  beds.  There  was  a  moment's  stillness 
as  he  entered,  the  scrutiny  of  two  rosy  faces  framed 
in  blanket  and  sheet — there  were  no  pillows — and  then 
there  was  a  delighted  vociferous  recognition  of  his 
presence. 

"You  must  sit  on  my  bed,"  Helena  insisted. 

"No,  mine!"  Gregory  cried;  and,  as  he  settled  by 
his  daughter,  "For  every  minute  you're  there,  father, 
you  must  sit  here.  Guess  what  I  have  with  me." 
Lee  Randon  had  no  idea,  and  Gregory  produced  a 
willow  switch.  "That's  for  anybody  who  isn't  good." 

There  was  a  wriggle  down  under  the  blanket,  and 

[37] 


CYTHEREA 

Lee  leaned  forward;  "Are  those  your  feet?"  he 
demanded;  "do  you  go  that  far  down,  are  you  that 
tall?" 

"Gracious,  that's  nothing,"  Helena  cut  in;  "just  see 
where  I  go."  He  discovered  that  her  active  toes  were 
almost  under  the  end  bar  of  the  bed.  The  covers  were 
moulded  by  her  firm  body.  In  a  few  years,  he  thought 
with  a  constricted  throat,  Helena  would  be  grown  up, 
flung  into  the  complex  troubles  of  maturity.  How 
ever,  he  knew,  life  wouldn't  greatly  upset  her — she  had 
a  calmness  more  stolid  than  Fanny's  together  with  his 
own  sharpened  sensibilities:  it  was  probable  that  she 
would  marry  soon. 

Gregory  was  different;  while  Helena,  in  small  ways, 
was  unamenable,  he  was  as  good  as  the  gold  stars  he 
continually  got  for  admirable  conduct.  He  had  a 
deliberate,  careful  mind  and,  already,  a  sense  of 
responsibilities.  He  spoke  slowly,  giving  the  impres 
sion  that  the  selection  of  words  was  a  heavy  business ; 
where  Helena's  speech  came  in  careless  rushes. 
Gregory,  too,  Lee  Randon  told  himself,  would  not  be 
at  a  loss  later.  The  two  children  actually  demanded 
very  little  from  him  now  beyond  the  love  they  took  for 
granted  and  its  obvious  return.  But,  for  his  part,  did 
he  give  them  much,  indeed,  any  more?  Was  there, 
Lee  wondered,  a  deficiency  in  his  sense  of  parenthood? 

He  knew  men  all  of  whose  labor  was  for  their 
children;  they  slaved  to  have  comfortable  sums  against 
their  children's  futures;  they  schemed  and  talked,  often 

t'38] 


CYTHEREA 

fatuously,  for  and  about  their  sons  and,  in  lesser 
degree,  daughters.  They  were,  in  short,  wholly  ab 
sorbed,  no  more  than  parents;  at  the  advent  of  a 
family  they  lost  individuality,  ambition,  initiative; 
nature  trapped  them,  blotted  them  out;  it  used  them 
for  its  great  purpose  and  then  cast  them  aside,  just  as 
corporations  used  men  for  a  single  task  and  dropped 
them  when  their  productiveness  was  over. 

But  he  wasn't  like  that,  it  might  well  be  unfor 
tunately.  His  personality,  his  peculiar  needs,  had 
survived  marriage;  the  vague  longings  of  youth  had 
not  been  entirely  killed.  They  were  still  potent  and 
still  nameless;  they  had  refused  to  be  gathered  into  a 
definition  as  exact  as  ambition.  Lee  had  moved  to 
Gregory's  bed,  and  was  holding  one  of  the  small  warm 
hands,  inattentive  to  the  eager  clamor  of  voices.  Per 
haps  his  ambition  had  vanished  when  he  had  left  the 
first  plan  of  his  future  for  the  more  tangible  second: 
there  wasn't  much  in  the  material  industry  of  iron 
founding,  nor  in  his  present  wider  activities,  to  satisfy 
the  imagination. 

Taking  the  place  of  that,  he  had  an  uncommon 
amount  of  energy,  vitality,  a  force  of  some  kind  or 
other.  Whatever  he  undertook  he  followed  with  a 
full  vigorous  sweep;  he  was  successful  in  convincing 
a  large  proportion  of  the  people  with  whom  he  dealt 
that  their  ends  were  the  same  as  his ;  and  here,  as  well, 
chance,  fate,  had  been  with  Lee — no  one,  practically, 
had  lost  through  a  belief  in  him. 

[39] 


CYTHEREA 

His  situation  today,  he  wholly  and  gladly  admitted, 
had  resulted  from  the  money  Fanny  brought  him. 
Until  his  marriage  he  had  been  confined  to  the 
Magnolia  Iron  Works;  of  which,  it  was  conceivable, 
he  would  in  time  be  manager,  maybe,  much  later,  part 
owner.  But,  with  fresh  resources,  he  tried  fresh  fields, 
investments,  purchases,  every  one  of  which  prospered. 
He  owned  or  operated  or  controlled  an  extraordinary 
diversity  of  industries — a  bottling  works  for  non 
alcoholic  beverages,  a  small  structural  steel  plant,  the 
Eastlake  daily  paper — a  property  that  returned  forty 
per  cent  on  his  capital — a  box  works,  purchased  before 
the  war,  with  an  output  that  had  leaped,  almost  over 
night,  from  thousands  to  millions,  a  well-known 
cigarette — 

His  energies,  forever  turning  from  routine  paths 
and  stereotyped  preoccupations,  took  him  vividly  into 
countless  phases  of  existence.  He  had  accumulated 
nearly  a  million  dollars  and  Fanny's  affairs  had 
benefited  greatly;  his  administration  of  her  money  had 
been  rigid:  but — for  whatever  it  was  worth — his  wife 
had,  in  liberating  him  from  the  company  of  the  super- 
hot  cupolas,  made  it  all  possible. 

A  fist,  now,  was  softly  pounding  him;  and 
Gregory's  voice  threatened  tears.  "What  is  it?"  Lee 
Randon  asked.  "You  will  have  to  excuse  me,  I  was 
thinking." 

The  narrative  which  followed,  the  confused  history 
of  a  two  and  a  half  dollar  gold-piece  finally  taken 

[40] 


CYTHEREA 

from  Gregory  by  his  mother,   was  broken  into  by 
Helena's  irrepressible  contempt  at  his  youthfulness. 

"He  thinks  the  money  is  gone/'  she  explained,  "be 
cause  Mother  put  it  in  the  bank  for  him.  I  told  him 
when  he  got  it  there  would  be  a  lot  more,  but  he  just 
wouldn't  listen  to  me.  No  matter  what  anybody  said 
it  was  no  good." 

"Well,"  Gregory  inquired,  "how  much  more?" 

"I  don't  know,  silly;  but  packs." 

* '  Seventy-seven  dollars  ? ' ' 

"That  depends  on  how  long  you  leave  it  in  the 
bank,"  Lee  instructed  him.  "If  you  didn't  ask  for  it 
for  twenty  years — " 

"But  I  want  it  next  Thursday,"  Gregory  hotly  inter 
rupted;  "won't  it  be  any  bigger  then?" 

"He  does  nothing  but  ask  and  ask  questions," 
Helena  added.  Lee  patted  Gregory's  cheek: 

"Don't  let  Helena  discourage  you.  If  I  don't  put 
the  light  out  your  mother  will  make  me  go  to  bed." 

There  were  breathless  delighted  giggles  at  the 
thought  of  that  absurdity.  He  leaned  over  his  son. 
"Kiss  me!"  Helena  cried.  "Now  kiss  me,"  Gregory 
echoed.  "Kiss  me  back  again — " 

The  light  went  out  with  a  sharp  click,  and  the  room 
was  once  more  a  glimmering  darkness,  blanched  and 
cold.  The  ruddy  faces  of  the  children,  their  bright 
hair,  even  their  voices,  were  subdued.  Fanny,  appar 
ently,  hadn't  moved;  the  light  at  her  shoulder  was 
reflected  in  the  cut  steel  buckles  of  her  slippers;  she 

[41] 


CYTHEREA 

had  slight  but  graceful  ankles.  He  recognized  this, 
drawing  a  sheaf  of  reports  from  his  brief-case;  but, 
after  a  perfunctory  glance,  he  dropped  them  beside 
him  on  the  floor. 

"Really,  Lee,  your  condition  is  getting  dreadful," 
Fanny  observed;  "you  are  too  nervous  for  words.  Go 
in  and  look  at  that  doll  you  brought  from  New  York. 
She  ought  to  teach  you  repose  even  if  I  can't."  A 
swift  concern  shadowed  her  eyes.  "Are  you  doing 
too  much,  do  you  think?  It  isn't  necessary,  you  know. 
We  have  plenty.  I  don't  understand  why  you  will  go 
so  hard  at  all  those  fool  concerns  of  yours.  There 
might  be  a  mortgage  on  us,  from  the  way  you  work." 

The  latter  part  of  her  speech  he  forgot  in  the  calling 
of  his  attention  to  Cytherea.  Fanny  had  said  that  the 
doll  might  tranquilize  him.  The  opposite  was  more 
probable — Cytherea,  what  could  be  more  disturbing? 
Fanny  hadn't  noticed  her  smile,  the  long  half-closed 
eyes,  the  expression  of  malicious  tenderness,  if  such 
a  thing  were  possible,  the  pale  seductiveness  of  her 
wrists  and  hands,  the  finger  nails  stained  with  vermil 
ion.  He  tried  to  imagine  a  woman  like  that,  warm, 
no — burning,  with  life.  It  seemed  to  Lee  the  doll 
became  animated  in  a  whisper  of  cool  silk,  but  he 
couldn't  invent  a  place,  a  society,  into  which  she  fitted. 
Not  Eastlake,  certainly,  nor  New  York  .  .  .  perhaps 
Cuba.  What  a  vanity  of  nonsense  his  thoughts  had 
led  him  back  into:  Cytherea,  a  thing  of  wax,  was  on 
the  over-mantel  beyond  the  hall ;  Cuba  beyond  the  sea. 

[42] 


CYTHEREA 

The  smoke  of  another  cigar,  precisely  in  the  manner 
of  the  one  before,  hung  between  him  and  the  piano. 
His  wife  settled  contentedly  in  the  curly  maple  rocker, 
her  rings  flashing  in  the  swift  drawing  of  threads  from 
a  square  of  linen. 

Early  in  the  morning  Lee  Randon  drove  himself,  in 
a  Ford  sedan,  to  a  station  on  the  main  line  of  a  rail 
way  which  bore  him  into  the  city  and  his  office.  It 
was  nine  miles  from  Eastlake  to  the  station,  where  he 
left  the  car  for  his  return;  and,  under  ordinary  cir 
cumstances,  he  accomplished  the  distance  in  twenty 
minutes.  The  road  was  good  and  lay  through  open 
rolling  country,  grazing  and  farmed  land ;  he  knew  its 
every  aspect  thoroughly,  each  hill  and  turning  and  old 
stone  house,  in  the  pale  green  of  early  spring  with  the 
flushed  petals  of  the  apple  blossoms  falling  on  the 
dark  ploughed  ground ;  yellow  with  grain ;  a  sweeping 
stubble  with  the  corn  shocked  in  which  rabbit  hunters, 
brown  like  the  sheaves,  called  to  their  dogs. 

Now  it  was  sombre  and,  in  the  morning  and  evening, 
wrapped  in  blue  mist;  the  air  had  the  thick  damp 
coldness  usually  precipitated  in  snow ;  the  cattle,  gath 
ered  about  the  fodder  spread  in  the  fields,  were 
huddled  against  the  rising  winds.  The  smoke  of  a 
chimney  was  flattened  on  a  low  roof;  and  Lee,  who 
had  sometimes  wished  that  he  were  a  part  of  the 
measured  countryside  life,  had  a  sudden  feeling  of 
revolt  from  such  binding  circumstances.  He  wasn't 

[43] 


CYTHEREA 

surprised,  this  morning,  that  it  was  difficult  to  get  men 
to  work  in  the  comparative  loneliness  of  the  farms,  or 
that  farmers'  sons  went  continually  to  the  cities. 

When  they  couldn't  get  there  they  crowded  into  their 
borough  towns,  into  Eastlake,  at  every  opportunity, 
attracted  by  the  gaiety,  the  lights,  the  stir,  the  contact 
with  humanity.  Before  prohibition  they  had  drunk 
at  the  hotel  bars,  and  driven  home,  with  discordant 
laughter  and  the  urged  clatter  of  hoofs,  to  the  silence 
of  star-lit  fields.  The  buggies  had  gone ;  High  Street, 
on  Saturday  night,  was  filled  with  automobiles;  there 
was  practically  no  drunkenness;  but  there  was  no 
lessening  in  the  restless  seeking  stream  of  men,  the 
curiosity  of  the  women  with  folded  hands  and  tightly 
folded  lips. 

They  all  wanted  a  mitigation  of  a  life  which,  funda 
mentally,  did  not  fill  them;  they  had  an  absorbing 
labor,  love  and  home  and  children,  the  church,  yet 
they  were  unsatisfied.  They  were  discontented  with 
the  primary  facts  of  existence,  the  serious  phases,  and 
wanted,  above  everything,  tinsel  and  laughter.  If  a 
girl  passing  on  the  street  smiled  boldly  at  such  youths 
they  were  fired  with  triumph  and  happiness;  they 
nudged  each  other  violently  and  made  brazen  declara 
tions  which,  faced  by  the  girls,  escaped  in  disconcerted 
laughter.  Their  language — and  this,  too,  was  a  re 
volt — was  like  the  sweepings  of  the  cow  barns. 

Life,  it  occurred  to  Lee  Randon,  in  this  connection, 
was  amazingly  muddled;  and  he  wondered  what 

[44] 


CYTHEREA 

would  happen  if  the  restraint,  since  it  was  no  better 
than  sham,  should  be  swept  away,  and  men  acknowl 
edged  what  they  so  largely  were?  A  fresh  standard, 
a  new  set  of  values,  would  have  to  be  established. 
But  before  that  could  be  accomplished  an  underlying 
motive  must  be  discovered.  That  he  searched  for  in 
himself;  suppose  he  were  absolutely  free,  not  to 
morrow,  that  evening,  but  now — 

Would  he  go  to  the  office,  to  the  affairs  of  the 
Zenith  cigarette,  and,  once  there,  would  he  come  home 
again — the  four  thirty-seven  train  and  the  Ford  in  the 
shed  by  the  station?  Lee  couldn't  answer  this  finally. 
A  road  led  over  the  hills  on  the  right,  beyond  a  horizon 
of  trees.  He  knew  it  for  only  a  short  distance ;  where 
ultimately  it  led  he  had  no  idea.  But  it  was  an  entic 
ing  way,  and  he  had  an  idiotic  impulse  to  turn  aside, 
follow  it,  and  never  come  back  any  more.  Actually 
he  almost  cut  in,  and  he  had  to  swing  the  car  sharply 
to  the  left. 

If  he  had  been  in  trouble  or  debt,  if  his  life  had 
been  a  failure,  he  would  have  understood  his  impulse; 
but  as  it  was,  with  Fanny  and  Helena  and  Gregory, 
all  his  flourishing  affairs — why,  it  was  insanity! 
However,  what  absorbed  him  in  his  present  state  of 
mind,  of  inquiry,  was  its  honesty;  nothing  could  be 
served  by  conventional  protests  and  nice  sentiments. 
Lee  had  long  wanted  to  escape  from  life,  from  the 
accumulating  limiting  circumstances.  Or  was  it  death 
he  tried  to  avoid? 

[45] 


CYTHEREA 

What  became  clearest  was  that,  of  all  the  things 
which  had  happened  to  him,  he  would  not,  at  the 
beginning,  have  deliberately  chosen  any.  One,  it 
seemed,  bred  by  the  other,  had  overtaken  him,  fastened 
upon  him,  while  he  was  asleep.  Lee  knew  a  man 
who,  because  of  his  light  strength  and  mastery  of 
horses,  had  spent  a  prolonged  youth  riding  in  gentle 
men's  steeplechases  for  the  great  Virginia  stables;  a 
career  of  racing  silk  and  odds  and  danger,  of  highly 
ornamental  women  and  champagne,  of  paddocks  and 
formal  halls  and  surreptitious  little  ante-rooms.  That 
he  envied ;  and,  recalling  his  safe  ignominious  useful 
ness  during  the  war,  he  envied  the  young  half-drunk 
aviators  sweeping  in  reckless  arcs  above  the  fortified 
German  cities. 

Or  was  it,  again,  only  youth  that  he  lamented,  con 
scious  of  its  slipping  supinely  from  his  grasp?  Yet, 
if  that  were  all,  why  was  he  rebellious  about  the 
present,  the  future,  rather  than  the  past?  Lee  Randon 
wasn't  looking  back  in  a  self-indulgent  melancholy. 
Nor  was  he  an  isolated,  peculiar  being;  yes,  all  the  men 
he  knew  had,  more  or  less,  his  own  feeling;  he  could 
think  of  none,  even  half  intelligent,  who  was  happy. 
Each  had  Lee's  aspect  of  having  been  forced  into  a 
consummation  he  would  not  have  selected,  of  some 
thing  temporary,  hurried,  apologetic. 

He  thought  more  specially  of  men  celebrated  in 
great  industries,  who  had  accumulated  power  beyond 
measure,  millions  almost  beyond  count — what  extrav- 

[46] 


CYTHEREA 

agantly  mad  outlets  they  turned  to !  The  captains  of 
steel,  of  finance,  were  old,  spent,  before  they  were  fifty, 
broken  by  machinery  and  strain  in  mid-life,  by  a 
responsibility  in  which  they  were  like  pig  iron  in  an 
open  hearth  furnace.  What  man  would  choose  to 
crumble,  to  find  his  brain  paralysed,  at  forty-five  or 
six  ?  Such  labor  was  a  form  of  desperation,  of  drown 
ing,  forgetting,  an  affair  at  best  an  implied  failure. 

That  was  the  strength,  the  anodyne,  of  drink,  of 
cocktails,  that  they  spread  a  glittering  transformation 
about  crass  reality;  people  danced  at  stated  times,  in 
hot  crowded  rooms,  because  life  was  pedestrian;  they 
were  sick  of  walking  in  an  ugly  meaningless  clamor 
and  wanted  to  move  to  music,  to  wear  pearl  studs  and 
fragile  slippers  and  floating  chiffons.  "The  whole 
damned  business  is  a  mess,"  he  said  aloud.  Then, 
reaching  the  city,  he  threw  himself  with  a  familiar 
vigor  into  the  activities  he  had  challenged. 

Returning  over  the  familiar  road,  in  his  small  closed 
car,  he  was  quieter  mentally,  critical  of  his  useless  dis 
satisfaction  ;  he  was  making  needless  trouble  for  him 
self.  Small  things  filled  his  thoughts,  among  them 
the  question  of  how  much  gin  would  be  consumed  by 
the  cocktail  party  Fanny  and  he  were  having  before 
the  dinner  dance  at  the  Country  Club.  Peyton  and 
Claire  Morris,  Anette  and,  if  she  came,  Mina  Raff, 
with  two  men,  and  the  Lucians.  Perhaps  twelve  in 
all;  two  quarts.  The  Country  Club  dances,  princi 
pally  made  up  of  people  who  had  known  each  other 

[47] 


CYTHEREA 

long  and  intimately,  decidedly  needed  an  impetus; 
society  was  rather  dreadful  without  rum.  Anette  was 
an  attractive  girl;  she  had  beautiful  legs;  but  they 
were  hardly  better  than  Fanny's ;  why  in  the  name  of 
God  was  he  captivated  by  Anette's  casual  ankles  and 
indifferent  to  his  wife's? 

Women's  legs — they  were  even  no  longer  hidden — 
were  only  a  reasonable  anatomical  provision  exactly 
shared  by  men.  Why,  he  particularized,  did  he  prefer 
them  in  silk  stockings  rather  than  bare,  and  in  black 
more  than  bright  colors?  Anette's  had  never  failed 
to  excite  his  imagination,  but  Alice  Lucian's,  graceful 
enough,  were  without  interest  for  him.  How  stupid 
was  the  spectacle  of  women  in  tights !  Short  bathing 
skirts  left  him  cold,  but  the  unexpected,  the  casual,  the 
vagaries  of  fashion  and  the  wind,  were  unfailingly 
potential.  Humiliating,  he  thought,  a  curiosity  that 
should  be  left  with  the  fresh  experience  of  youth;  but 
it  wasn't — comic  opera  with  its  choruses  and  the  bur 
lesque  stage  were  principally  the  extravagances  of 
middle  age. 

The  orange  juice  and  square  bottles  of  clear  gin, 
the  array  of  glasses  and  ice-filled  pewter  pitcher  in 
which  Lee  mixed  his  drinks,  were  standing  conven 
iently  on  a  table  in  the  small  reception  room.  Fanny, 
in  a  lavender  dress  with  a  very  full  skirt  decorated 
with  erratically  placed  pale  yellow  flowers,  had 
everything  in  readiness.  "Mina  Raff  came,"  she 

[48] 


CYTHEREA 

announced,  as  he  descended  the  stairs.  "Anette 
telephoned.  To  be  quite  frank  I  didn't  much  care 
whether  she  did  or  didn't.  She  used  to  be  too  stiff, 
too  selfish,  I  thought;  and  I  never  liked  Anette." 

"Nothing  but  prejudice,  that,"  he  replied  decidedly. 
"Anette  has  a  very  good  head.  You  have  just  heard 
stories  from  envious  women."  He  was  careful  to  say 
nothing  about  her  legs.  "I  haven't  found  her  the 
least  bit  out  of  the  way;  and  she  thinks  a  lot  of  you." 

"Bosh,"  Fanny  said  inattentively;  "I  know  what  she 
thinks  of  me.  I  am  surprised,  Lee,  that  you  do  so 
well,  because  really  you  are  nothing  but  an  impression 
able  old  fool."  She  touched  him  affectionately  on  the 
cheek,  "But  I  can  take  care  of  you  and  Anette  too." 

He  didn't  in  the  slightest  wish  to  be  taken  care  of 
in  the  manner  she  indicated ;  yet  there  was  nothing  he 
could  answer;  and,  at  the  sound  of  a  motor  on  the 
drive,  he  turned  toward  the  entrance  at  the  back.  It 
was  the  Lucians;  and  as  he  greeted  them  the  whole 
small  company  swept  into  the  house.  Claire,  with  her 
narrow  dark  vivid  face,  wore  diagonals  of  black  and 
grey,  with  a  long  trailing  girdle  of  soft  blues  and 
pinks.  She  came  up  at  once  to  Lee  and  kissed  him 
with  a  warm  friendliness.  "Have  you  seen  Mina 
Raff?"  she  asked;  "she's  wonderful." 

As  Claire  spoke  Lee  Randon  saw  the  woman  who 
was  becoming  such  a  noted  personality.  She  was  slim, 
neither  tall  nor  short — Peyton  Morris  was  removing 
a  voluminous  white  cloak  with  dull  red  stripes  and  a 

[49] 


CYTHEREA 

high  collar  of  fox.  He  had  been  wrong  in  his  remem 
brance  of  her,  for  her  loveliness  was  beyond  challenge. 
Yes,  a  wistful  April  moon  described  her  very  well: 
Mina  Raff  was  ashen  blonde,  her  face  was  a  very  pure 
oval,  and  her  large  eyes,  the  delicate  slightly  drooping 
mouth,  held  an  expression  of  devastating  sweetness. 

She  came  forward  promptly,  and  yet  with  a  little 
touching  air  of  hesitation,  and  accused  him,  in  a 
serious  low  voice,  of  having  forgotten  her.  That,  he 
returned,  was  ridiculous,  an  impossibility.  Pictures 
of  her  were  in  all  the  magazines.  Close  by  her  he 
recognized  that  the  sweetness  was  far  from  sugary; 
there  were  indications  of  a  determination  that  reached 
stubbornness;  already  there  were  faint  lines — skil 
fully  covered — at  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  and  she  was 
palpably,  physically,  weary.  It  was  that,  he  decided, 
which  gave  her  the  wistful  charm.  That  and  some 
thing  more.  She  was  considered,  he  knew,  and  by  the 
judges  best  qualified,  to  have  a  very  sure  and  perfect 
talent;  and  he  had  no  doubt  that  that  possession 
stamped  and  qualified  her. 

He  was  obliged  to  attend  to  the  cocktails;  and,  at 
his  back,  a  gay  chatter  of  voices  rose.  He  had  fleet 
ing  impressions  of  very  different  people:  a  strange 
man  in  naval  uniform  with  the  insignia  of  a  com 
mander;  Anette  in  a  scanty  sheath  of  satin  from  which 
an  airy  skirt  spread  to  the  left  like  a  fan;  Alice  Lucian 
sitting  on  the  steps  with  George  Willard:  Frank 
Carver  remote  and  lost  in  his  bitter  thoughts;  Elsie 

[50] 


CYTHEREA 

Wayland  with  the  gold  halo  of  an  income  almost  a 
dollar  a  minute. 

Mina  Raff,  with  Peyton  Morris  at  her  shoulder, 
smiled  at  him.  "What  an  adorable  house,"  she  pro 
nounced;  "I  wish  I  could  have  it  near  the  studio." 
She  waved  Peyton  away  unceremoniously,  "Come, 
everybody  has  had  enough  drinks,  and  show  it  to  me." 
They  passed  through  the  hall,  and  into  the  quiet  of 
the  space  beyond,  lighted  by  a  single  unobtrusive  lamp. 
"What  a  satisfactory  fireplace!"  she  exclaimed  in 
her  faint  key,  as  though,  Lee  thought,  her  silent  acting 
were  depriving  her  of  voice.  She  sank  onto  the 
cushioned  bench  against  the  partition.  "How  did 
they  feel,  do  you  suppose — the  people,  the  men  and 
women,  who  belonged  to  such  things?"  As  Lee 
watched  her  it  seemed  that  she  grew  more  remote, 
shadowy,  like  a  memory  of  long  vanished  beauty  made 
before  his  eyes  from  the  shifting  firelight  and  im 
material  shadows.  Mina  Raff  lost  her  reality  in  an 
unreal  charm  that  compressed  his  heart.  The  atmos 
phere  around  her  stirred  with  re-created  dead  emo 
tions.  Then: 

"Ah!"  she  cried  softly,  unexpectedly,  "what  a 
wonderful  doll."  She  rose,  with  a  graceful  gesture 
of  her  hands  up  to  where  Cytherea  rested.  "Where 
did  you  get  her?  But  that  doesn't  matter:  do  you 
suppose,  would  it  be  possible  for  me,  could  I  buy 
her?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  Lee  answered  promptly;  "we  can't 
[51] 


CYTHEREA 

do  without   her.     She  belongs  to  Helena,"  he  lied. 

"But  not  to  a  child,"  Mina  Raff  protested,  with 
what,  in  her,  was  animation  and  color;  uit  has  a 
wicked,  irresistible  beauty."  She  gazed  with  a  sud 
den  flash  of  penetration  at  Lee  Randon.  "Are  you 
sure  it's  your  daughter's?"  she  asked,  once  more  re 
pressed,  negative.  "Are  you  quite  certain  it  is  not 
yours  and  you  are  in  love  with  it?" 

He  laughed  uncomfortably.  "You  seem  to  think 
I'm  insane — " 

"No,"  she  replied,  "but  you  might,  perhaps,  be 
about  that."  Her  voice  was  as  impersonal  as  an 
oracle's.  "You  would  be  better  off  without  her  in 
your  house;  she  might  easily  ruin  it.  No  common 
infidelity  could  be  half  as  dangerous.  How  blind 
women  are — your  wife  would  keep  that  about  and  yet 
divorce  you  for  kissing  a  servant.  What  did  you 
call  her?" 

"Cytherea." 

"I  don't  know  what  that  means." 

He  told  her,  and  she  studied  him  in  a  brief  masked 
appraisal.  "Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  get 
four  hundred  letters  a  week  from  men;  they  are  put 
everywhere,  sometimes  in  my  bed;  and  last  week  a 
man  killed  himself  because  I  wouldn't  see  him. 
You'd  think  that  he  had  all  a  man  wanted  from  life; 
yet,  in  his  library,  with  his  secretary  waiting  for  him, 
he.  ...  Why?"  she  demanded,  questioning  him  with 
her  subdued  magic. 

[52] 


CYTHEREA 

"Have  you  ever  cared  for  any  of  them?"  he  asked 
indirectly. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  replied,  with  an  evident 
honesty;  "I  am  trying  to  make  up  my  mind  now.  But 
I  hope  not,  it  will  bring  so  much  trouble.  I  do  all 
I  can  to  avoid  that;  I  really  hate  to  hurt  people.  If 
it  happens,  though,  what  can  you  do?  Which  is 
worse — to  damage  others  or  yourself?  Of  course, 
underneath  I  am  entirely  selfish;  I  have  to  be;  I  al 
ways  was.  Art  is  the  most  exhausting  thing  that  is. 
But  I  don't  know  a  great  deal  about  it;  other  people, 
who  act  rather  badly,  can  explain  so  fully." 

From  where  Lee  sat  he  could  see  Cytherea;  the  un 
steady  light  fell  on  the  gilt  headdress,  the  black  hair 
and  the  pale  disturbing  smile.  She  seemed  to  have 
paused  in  a  slow  graceful  walk,  waiting,  with  that 
wisdom  at  once  satirical  and  tender,  for  him.  To 
gether,  slowly,  deliberately,  they  would  move  away 
from  the  known,  the  commonplace,  the  bound,  into 
the  unknown — dark  gardens  and  white  marble  and 
the  murmur  of  an  ultramarine  sea.  He  was  rudely 
disturbed  by  the  entrance  of  Anette  and  Peyton  Mor 
ris.  "We're  so  sorry,"  Anette  said  in  an  exaggerated 
air  of  apology;  "come  on  away,  Peyton."  But  the 
latter  told  Lee  that  Fanny  was  looking  for  him.  "We 
are  ready  to  go  over  to  the  Club ;  it's  ten  minutes  past 
eight."  ' 

Mina  Raff  gazed  up  at  the  doll.  "I  have  an  idea 
the  devil  made  you,"  she  declared. 

[53] 


CYTHEREA 

"You  are  to  go  with  us,  Mina,"  Peyton  told  her; 
"if  you  will  get  your  cloak — "  The  two  women  left, 
and  Morris  demanded : 

"What  was  that  damned  rot  about  the  doll?'7 

"Miss  Raff  wanted  it." 

"Well,  why  not?" 

Lee  Randon  turned  away  coldly.  "Little  girls  can't 
have  everything  they  put  their  eyes  on."  Morris  mut 
tered,  and  Lee  asked,  "What's  that?"  The  other 
failed  to  reply,  but  his  remark  had  sounded  remark 
ably  like,  "She  can."  Going,  Lee  looked  back  in 
voluntarily:  he  hadn't,  after  all,  imagined  Cytherea's 
quality,  Mina  Raff  had  recognized  it,  too;  the  dance 
had  lost  its  attraction  for  him. 

The  automobiles  started  in  a  concentration  of  ac 
celerated  gasoline  explosions,  their  headlights  sweep 
ing  across  the  house  and  plunging  into  the  farther 
night.  Fanny  gathered  her  wrap  closely  about  her 
throat.  "I'm  cold,"  she  asserted;  "it  was  so  nice  at 
home,  with  the  children,  and  plans — I  intend  to  take 
out  that  yellow  rambler  and  try  a  climbing  American 
beauty  rose  there.  What  a  lovely  dress  of  Anette's; 
it  must  be  the  one  she's  been  talking  about  so  much, 
that  Miss  Zillinger  made;  really  good  for  Eastlake. 
What  was  that  man's  name  who  was  in  the  navy,  and 
did  you  notice  his  rank?  The  officers  of  the  navy 
are  a  lot  better  looking  than  army  men.  And  Mina 
Raff,  after  all  did  you  find  her  interesting?" 

[54] 


CYTHEREA 

" Quite.  She  struck  me  as  very  intelligent."  He 
had  no  wish  to  repeat  the  conversation  about  Cytherea. 
It  was  queer,  that;  the  more  he  considered  it  the  more 
significant  it  appeared  to  be.  "Did  it  seem  to  you," 
he  asked,  "that  Peyton  was  very  attentive?" 

"I  didn't  have  time  to  notice.  Do  you  think  it's 
true  about  her  getting  all  that  money?  It  looks  almost 
wicked  to  me,  with  so  many  people  needing  just  a 
little.  But  anybody  could  see  that  she  thinks  only 
of  herself;  I  don't  mean  she  isn't  charitable,  but  in — 
in  other  ways." 

They  were  late,  and  the  main  floor  was  being 
emptied  of  a  small  crowd  moving  into  the  dining-room. 
There  the  long  table  of  the  club  dinner  reached  from 
end  wall  to  wall;  and,  with  the  scraping  of  chairs, 
a  confusion  of  voices,  the  places  were  filled.  Lee 
found  himself  between  Bemis  Fox,  a  younger  girl 
familiar  enough  at  the  dances  but  whose  presence  had 
only  just  been  recognized,  and  Mrs.  Craddock,  in 
Eastlake  for  the  winter.  Anette  was  across  the  board, 
and  her  lips  formed  the  query,  "The  first  dance?" 

Lee  Randon  nodded;  he  was  measurably  fond  of 
her;  he  usually  enjoyed  a  party  at  which  he  found 
Anette.  That  she  liked  him  was  very  evident;  not 
desperately,  but  enough  to  dispose  of  most  restraint; 
she  repeated  to  Lee  what  stories,  formal  and  informal, 
men  told  her,  and  she  asked  his  advice  about  situa 
tions  always  intimate  and  interesting. 

The  flood  of  voices,  sustained  on  cocktails,  rose  and 
[55] 


CYTHEREA 

fell,  there  were  challenges  down  the  length  of  the  table 
and  quickly  exchanged  confidences.  Bemis,  publicly 
ingenuous,  laid  a  light  eager  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
Mrs.  Craddock  answered  a  question  in  a  decided  man 
ner.  The  dinner,  Lee  saw,  was  wholly  characteristic 
of  the  club  and  its  members:  they  had  all,  practically, 
known  each  other  for  years,  since  childhood ;  meeting 
casually  on  the  street,  in  the  discharge  of  a  common 
living,  their  greetings  and  conversation  were  based  on 
mutual  long  familiarity  and  recognized  facts;  but 
here,  at  such  dances,  they  put  on,  together  with  the 
appropriate  dress,  a  totally  other  aspect. 

An  artificial  and  exotic  air  enveloped  whatever  they 
did  and  said — hardy  perennials,  Lee  thought,  in  terms 
Fanny's  rather  than  his,  they  were  determined  to 
transform  themselves  into  the  delicate  and  rare  flowers 
of  a  conservatory.  Women  to  whom  giggling  was  an 
anomaly  giggled  persistently;  others,  the  perfect  forms 
of  housewife  and  virtue,  seemed  intent  on  creating 
the  opposite  engaging  impression;  they  were  all 
seriously,  desperately,  addressed  to  a  necessity  of  be 
ing  as  different  from  their  actual  useful  fates  as 
possible. 

The  men,  with  the  exception  of  the  very  young  and 
the  perpetually  young,  were,  Lee  Randon  knew,  more 
annoyed  than  anything  else;  there  was  hardly  one 
of  them  who,  with  opportunity,  would  not  have 
avoided  the  dinner  as  a  damned  nuisance;  scarcely 
a  man  would  have  put  his  stamp  of  approval  on  that 

[56] 


CYTHEREA 

kind  of  entertainment.  It  was  the  women  who  engi 
neered  it,  the  entire  society  of  America,  who  had  in 
vented  all  the  popular  forms  of  pleasure;  it  was  their 
show,  for  the  magnifying  of  their  charms  and  the 
spectacle  of  their  gay  satins  and  scented  lace ;  and  the 
men  came,  paid,  with  a  good  humor,  a  patience,  not 
without  its  resemblance  to  imbecility.  Women,  Lee 
continued,  constantly  complained  about  living  in  a 
world  made  by  men  for  men;  but  the  truth  of  that 
was  very  limited:  in  the  details,  the  details  which, 
enormously  multiplied,  filled  life,  women  were  omnip 
otent.  No  man  could  withstand  the  steady  friction, 
the  inexhaustible  wearing,  of  feminine  prejudice;  for 
ever  rolled  in  the  resistless  stream  of  women's  ambi 
tion,  their  men  became  round  and  smooth  and  ad 
mirable,  like  pebbles.  This,  he  saw,  in  Fanny's  lov 
ing  care,  was  happening  to  him:  she  had  spun  him 
into  the  center  of  a  silken  web — 

"You  are  not  very  polite,"  Mrs.  Craddock  said. 

"Are  you  a  mind-reader,"  he  replied,  "or  haven't 
I  heard  you?" 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  explained,  "but  you  were 
so  far  away." 

He  told  her  something  of  what  had  been  in  his 
thoughts,  and  she  rewarded  him  with  a  swift  spec 
ulative  interest.  "I  hadn't  realized  you  were  so 
critical  about  your  guinea  hen,"  she  acknowledged. 
"Well,  if  what  you  say  is  true,  what  can  you  do  about 
it?" 

[57] 


CYTHEREA 

"Nothing,"  Lee  returned  non-committally ;  "I  am 
comfortable."  This,  he  instantly  decided,  sounded 
unfair  to  Fanny,  and  he  substituted  happy.  Mrs. 
Craddock  obviously  was  not  interested  in  the  change. 
"I  get  as  tired  of  this  as  you  do,"  she  asserted 
abruptly;  "it's  like  being  on  a  merry-go-round  some 
one  else  started  and  can't  stop.  You  have  no  idea 
how  we  get  to  hate  the  tunes." 

"But  you  mustn't  forget  the  chance  of  catching  a 
gold  ring,"  he  reminded  her. 

"It's  brass,"  Mrs.  Craddock  asserted. 

The  orchestra  began  in  the  other  room  and,  though 
dinner  was  not  over,  there  were  breaks  in  the  table, 
couples  dancing  beyond.  Anette  rose,  and  Lee  Ran- 
don,  taking  her  into  his  arms,  swept  out  from  the 
doorway.  "What  was  she  talking  about?"  Anette 
demanded.  "You,"  he  replied  experimentally.  "I 
like  her;  experience  has  brought  her  some  wisdom; 
and  she  knows  men,  too." 

"God  knows  she  ought  to,"  Anette's  face  was  close 
to  his,  and  he  caught  the  flash  of  malice  in  her  eyes. 
Conscious  of  the  flavor  of  an  acceptable  flattery  he 
didn't  let  this  disturb  him.  "What  a  marvelous 
dance,"  she  proceeded;  "there  must  be  twenty  men 
over.  But  I  like  it  better  when  the  porch  isn't  in 
closed,  and  you  can  sit  on  the  bunkers." 

How  was  it  that  she  contrived  to  make  nearly  every 
thing  she  said  stir  his  imagination?  Anette  had  the 
art  of  investing  the  most  trivial  comments  with  a  sug- 

[58] 


CYTHEREA 

gestion  of  license.  It  was  a  stimulating  quality,  but 
dangerous  for  her — she  was  past  thirty  with  no  sign 
of  marriage  on  the  horizon.  He  wondered  if  she 
really  had  thrown  her  slipper  over  the  hedge?  It 
wasn't  important,  Lee  decided,  if  she  had.  How 
ludicrous  it  was  to  judge  all  women,  weigh  their  char-^ 
acter,  by  the  single  standard  of  chastity.  But  this 
much  must  be  admitted,  when  that  convention  of 
morality  was  broken  it  had  no  more  significance  than  / 
the  fragments  of  a  coconut  shell.  The  dance  came 
to  an  end  and  they  returned  to  their  vanilla  mousse, 
coffee  and  cigarettes. 

Some  of  the  men  were  leaning  over  the  table, 
drunk  and  noisy;  a  woman's  laugh  was  shrill,  sense 
less.  Senseless!  That,  for  Lee  Randon,  described 
the  whole  proceeding.  He  had  looked  forward  to  the 
dance  with  a  happy  anticipation,  and,  now  that  it  was 
here,  even  before  he  had  come,  he  was  out  of  key  with 
it.  The  efforts  of  the  people  about  him  to  forget 
themselves  were  stiff  and  unconvincing;  their  at 
titudes  were  no  more  than  masks  held  before  their 
faces;  there  wasn't  a  genuine  daring  emotion,  the 
courage  of  an  admitted  thrill,  to  be  found.  And  then, 
as  if  to  mock  his  understanding,  he  saw  Peyton  Morris 
with  such  a  desperately  white  face  bent  over  Mina 
Raff  that  he  had  an  impulse  to  reprove  him  for  his 
shameless  exposure. 

Instead,  he  cut  in  on  their  dancing  and  carried  her 
to  the  other  end  of  the  floor.  "I  don't  know  why  you 

[59] 


CYTHEREA 

did  that,"  she  complained;  "you  don't  like  me.  But 
you  can  dance,  and  with  Peyton  it's  a  little  like  rush 
ing  down  a  football  field.  There!  Shall  we  drop 
the  encore  and  go  outside?  My  wrap  is  on  a  chair 
in  the  corner." 

•  '        •          •          •          •          •          •          • 

"I  don't  go  to  parties,"  she  explained;  "I  am  only 
here  on  Anette's  account.  That  was  Oscar  Hammer- 
stein's  idea — he  wouldn't  let  his  actresses  even  ride  in 
a  public  car;  he  said  that  mystery  was  a  part  of  their 
value,  and  that  people  wouldn't  pay  to  see  them  if 
they  were  always  on  the  streets.  Beside,  I  am  tired 
all  the  time;  you  can't  possibly  know  how  hard  I 
work;  a  hundred  times  harder  than  you,  for  instance." 

"I've  been  told  that  about  moving  pictures." 

"The  glare  of  the  silver- foil  reflectors  is  unbear 
able,"  she  looked  up,  with  a  pointed  and  famous 
effect.  "But  you  don't  like  me?" 

"I  do;  aside  from  that,  though,  I'm  not  sure; 
probably  because  you  are  so  remote  and  cold." 

"Thank  God! "  she  replied.  "You  haven't  stopped 
to  think  where  I'd  be  if  I  weren't.  And  yet,  no 
one,  in  their  work,  is  supposed  to  be  more  emotional. 
It's  funny,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  understand.  The 
trouble  with  me  is  that  I  have  no  life  of  my  own: 
ever  since  I  was  sixteen  I've  done  what  directors  told 
me,  for  the  public;  it  is  time  I  had  some  private 
feelings." 

"It  must  be  a  nuisance,"  he  agreed. 

[60] 


CYTHEREA 

Another  dance  began,  but  neither  of  them  stirred; 
from  where  Lee  sat  the  long  doors  were  panels  of 
shifting  colors  and  movement.  The  music  beat, 
fluctuated,  in  erratic  bars.  A  deep  unhappiness  pos 
sessed  him,  an  appalling  loneliness  that  sometimes 
descended  on  him  in  crowds.  Even  Fanny,  the 
thought  of  his  children,  could  not  banish  it.  Above 
the  drum  he  thought  he  could  hear  the  sibilant  dis 
satisfaction  of  the  throng  striving  for  an  eternity  of 
youth.  Thfc  glass  about  the  porch,  blotted  with  night, 
was  icy  cold,  but  it  was  hot  within;  the  steam  pipes 
were  heated  to  their  full  capacity,  and  the  women's 
painted  and  powdered  faces  were  streaked — their  as 
sumption  of  vitality  and  color  was  running  from  them. 

"Hideous,"  Mina  Raff  said  with  a  small  grimace. 
She  had  the  strange  ability  of  catching  his  unex 
pressed  thoughts  and  putting  them  into  words. 
"Women,"  she  went  on,  "spend  all  their  money 
and  half  their  lives  trying  to  look  well,  and  you'd 
suppose  they  would  learn  something,  but  they  don't." 

"What  do  women  dress  for?"  he  demanded;  "is 
it  to  make  themselves  seductive  to  men  or  to  have 
other  women  admire  and  envy  them?" 

"Both,"  she  answered,  "but  mostly  it's  a  sort  of 
competition  /with  men  for  the  prize.  I'll  tell  you 
something  about  us  if  you  like — we  are  not  made  of 
sugar  and  spice  and  other  pleasant  bits,  but  only  of 
two:  prostitute  and  mother.  Not,  of  course,  sep 
arately,  or  in  equal  parts;  some  of  us  have  more  of 

[61] 


CYTHEREA 

one,  others  more  of  the  other.  That  girl  across  the 
table  from  you  is  all  prostitute,  the  married  woman 
you  were  talking  to  is  both,  quite  evenly  divided; 
your  wife  is  a  mother,  even  with  her  remarkable  eyes." 
She  stopped  his  obvious  inquiry: 

"I  am  an  artist,  and  no  one  has  yet  discovered  what 
that  is.  Do  you  remember  the  straw  you  used  to  get 
with  a  glass  of  soda  water?  You  see,  often  I  think 
I'm  like  that,  a  thing  for  bright  colors  to  pour  through. 
It's  very  discouraging.  There  is  Peyton,  and  he'll 
want  to  dance."  She  rose,  slipping  out  of  her  cloak. 

Lee  Randon  saw  Fanny  not  far  away,  and  he 
dropped  into  a  chair  beside  her.  "Well,"  he  asked, 
"how  is  it  going?" 

"It  seems  all  right,"  she  told  him,  with  one  of  her 
engaging  smiles.  "I  was  surprised  that  you  talked 
so  long  to  Mina  Raff;  I  had  the  idea  you  didn't  like 
her."  Women,  he  reflected,  were  uncanny.  "Three 
women  are  just  plastered  up  in  the  dressing-room," 
she  continued;  "Sophie  Tane  ruined  her  dress  com 
pletely,  and  Crystal  Willard  has  been  sobbing  for  an 
hour.  Lee,  there  are  horrid  bruises  on  her  arm — do 
you  think  he  is  brutal?" 

He  told  her  not  to  bother  about  the  Willards,  and 
then  rose  to  get  a  chair  for  Claire  Morris.  "Peyton 
is  simply  fascinated,"  Claire  asserted  lightly.  "This 
Mina  ought  to  have  something  handsome  for  giving 
him  such  a  splendid  time.  She  is  a  lovely  wench, 
Lee." 

[62] 


CYTHEREA 

"You  have  it  over  her  like  a  tent,  Claire,"  he  in 
sisted;  "you're  lovely  and  human  both." 

"Thank  you,  darling;  I'm  human,  fast  enough,  now 
that  the  drink  is  dying.  I  believe  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  am  ready  to  leave  a  dance  before  the  last 
flourish  of  the  music.  Fanny,  we  are  getting  older; 
it's  hideous  but  so.  We're  getting  on,  but  our  young 
men  are  gayer  every  day." 

Fanny  Randon's  smile,  her  expression,  were  secure. 

This  made  Lee  restive,  and,  patting  her  hand,  he 
left  to  dance  with  Alice  Lucian.  "When  this  is  over," 
she  informed  him,  "we'll  get  Anette  and  George,  and 
go  out  to  my  car.  There  is  a  Thermos  bottle  of  cock 
tails  hidden  under  the  seat."  The  girl  who  had  sat 
at  Lee's  right  was  dancing  with  a  tall  fair-haired 
boy  in  a  corner.  Entirely  oblivious  of  the  rest  of  the 
room,  they  were  advancing  two  matched  steps  and 
then  retreating,  their  eyes  tightly  shut  and  cheeks  to 
gether.  A  man  fell  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  catch 
ing  his  partner's  skirt  and  tearing  it  from  the  waist 
band.  Everywhere  the  mad  effort  at  escape! 

Lee  Randon  lost  his  impression  of  the  triviality  of 
the  occasion :  they  all  seemed  desperately  searching  for 
that  something  he  had  lost  and  which  was  overwhelm 
ingly  important  to  him;  and  all  the  while  the  music 
stuttered  and  mocked  and  confused  a  tragic  need. 
Or  it  was  like  a  momentary  release  from  deadly  con 
finement,  a  respite  that,  by  its  rare  intoxication,  drove 
the  participants  into  forms  of  incredulous  cramped 

[63] 


CYTHEREA 

abandon.  Positively,  he  thought,  they  were  grasping 
at  light,  at  color,  at  the  commonplace  sounds  of  a 
few  instruments,  as  though  they  were  incalculable 
treasures.  Alice,  when  she  danced,  held  her  head 
back  with  eyes  half  closed;  and  suddenly,  with  her 
mouth  a  little  parted,  she,  too,  had  a  look  of  Cytherea, 
a  flash  of  the  withheld  beauty  which  filled  him  with 
restlessness. 

It  startled  him,  and,  sub-consciously,  his  arm 
tightened  about  her.  She  responded  immediately, 
with  an  accelerated  breath,  and  the  resemblance  was 
gone.  Greatly  to  his  relief,  a  man  cut  in  on  them, 
and  once  more  he  found  himself  dancing  with  Anette. 
She  asked  him,  in  a  murmurous  warmth,  if  he  liked 
her,  at  all.  And,  with  a  new  and  surprising,  a  dis 
tasteful,  sense  of  lying,  he  replied  that  he  did,  tremen 
dously.  No,  a  feeling  in  him,  automatic  and  strange, 
responded — not  Anette!  He  wanted  to  leave  her,  to 
leave  everyone  here,  and  go.  For  what?  At  the 
same  time  he  realized  that  he  would  stay,  and  go  out, 
drink,  in  the  Lucians'  car.  He  had  a  haunting  im 
pression,  familiar  to  him  in  the  past  weeks,  that  he 
was  betraying  an  essential  quality  of  his  being. 

Yet  along  with  this  his  other  consciousness,  his 
interest  in  Anette, lingered;  it  existed  in  him  tangibly, 
a  thing  of  the  flesh,  not  to  be  denied.  She  was  all 
prostitute,  Mina  Raff  had  said,  using  the  word  in 
a  general  sense  rather  than  particularly,  without  an 
obvious  condemning  morality.  Indeed,  it  might 

[64] 


CYTHEREA 

easily  be  converted  into  a  term  of  praise,  for  what, 
necessarily,  it  described  was  the  incentive  that  forever 
drove  men  out  to  difficult  accomplishment,  to  anything 
rather  than  ease.  Good  or  bad,  bad  or  good — which, 
such  magic  or  maternity,  was  which? 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"It  would  take  years  to  tell  you." 

"I  wish  .  .  .  you  might;  but  I  didn't  mean  to 
say  that,  to  let  you  know — " 

"You  didn't  let  me  know  anything,"  he  broke  into 
her  period  impatiently.  "If  we  get  on  together  isn't 
that  enough?  It's  really  not  necessary  to  hide  our 
selves  behind  a  lot  of  pretentious  words.  And  what 
we  feel  tonight  hasn't  a  thing  to  do  with  tomorrow; 
probably  then  we'll  be  entirely  different;  how  can  it 
matter?" 

"It  does,  though,  because  you  might  hate  me  to 
morrow  for  being  myself  tonight.  What  you  think 
of  me  has  to  be  big  enough  to  guard  against  that. 
You  hurt  me,  Lee,  very  much,  talking  in  that  way." 

Alice  Lucian,  with  George  Willard,  passed  them 
and  nodded  significantly  toward  the  entrance.  "You 
will  need  a  cloak,"  Lee  told  Anette;  "it's  blowing 
colder  and  colder."  She  vanished  up  the  stairs,  to 
the  dressing-rooms,  while  Lee  stood  waiting  with  Wil 
lard.  He  didn't  especially  like  the  latter,  a  man  with 
an  exuberant  loud  friendliness,  a  good  nature,  that 
served  as  a  cover  for  a  facilely  predatory  sensuality. 

[65] 


CYTHEREA 

He  was  continually  taking  hold  of  feminine  arms, 
bending  close  over  dinner  dresses;  and  he  used — with 
a  show  of  humorous  frankness — his  long  knowledge 
of  the  girls  of  Eastlake  as  a  reason  for  kissing  them 
on  every  possible  occasion. 

Anette  and  Alice  appeared,  with  their  wraps  turned 
to  exhibit  the  silk  linings,  bright  like  their  dresses; 
and,  at  a  favorable  moment,  they  slipped  out  into  the 
malice  of  the  wind  beating  on  them  from  the  darkness. 
Anette  was  pressed  tightly  against  Lee,  Alice  and 
George  Willard  were  vaguely  ahead;  and,  after  a 
short  breathless  distance,  they  were  in  the  protection 
of  the  shed.  The  Lucians'  automobile  had  an  elab 
orate  enclosed  body:  shutting  the  doors  they  were 
completely  comfortable,  unobserved  and  warm. 
"No,"  Alice  directed,  "don't  put  on  the  light;  I  can 
find  it.  There!  We'll  have  to  use  the  cap  for  a 
glass."  The  aluminum  top  of  the  bottte  was  filled 
and  refilled;  the  frigid  gin  and  orange  juice  brought 
Lee  Randon  a  glow  of  careless  well-being,  irrespon 
sibility. 

The  others  had  gone  to  the  front  seat,  where  they 
were  squeezed  into  a  remarkably  small  space.  Anette 
sat  leaning  forward,  her  chin  propped  in  her  left  hand 
and  the  right  lightly  resting  on  Lee's  knee.  A  loose 
board  in  the  shed  kept  up  an  exasperating  clatter. 
A  match  flared  and  Willard  lighted  a  cigarette.  It 
was  curious  about  Alice — only  in  the  last  year,  and 

[66]  " 


CYTHEREA 

for  no  reason  Lee  could  discover,  had  she  done  things 
such  as  this.  Perhaps,  with  no  children,  and  the 
money  Warner  had  accumulated  comparatively  lately, 
she  hadn't  enough  to  do.  Of  course,  Warner,  a 
splendid  individual,  could  not  be  called  entertaining; 
he  was  totally  absorbed  in  his  business,  often  away 
at  the  wood-pulp  mill,  in  the  Laurentian  Mountains, 
in  which  he  had  a  large  interest. 

Warner  Lucian  had  nearly  all  the  principal  virtues 
— integrity,  generosity,  courage,  and  he  was  as  single 
in  mind  as  Willard  was  dubious;  but,  in  spite  of  so 
much,  it  was  clear  that  he  had  begun  to  weary  Alice. 
She  was  publicly  indifferent  to  him,  careless  of  his 
wishes;  she  had  even  complained  to  Lee  about  her 
husband's  good  conduct,  explaining  that  if  he  would 
only  have  what  she  termed  an  affair  he  would  be  more 
human. 

"I  am  still  very  cross  at  you."  Anette  spoke  out 
of  a  gloom  in  which  her  face  was  barely  distinguish 
able.  "You  took  all  the  niceness  out  of  our  friend 
ship  and  made  it  seem  horrid ;  just  as  though  you  had 
pulled  off  my  clothes;  I — I  haven't  the  same  feeling 
about  you." 

His  effort  at  honesty,  at  discovering  the  mystery 
of  profound  disturbing  needs,  had  been  vain.  Gather 
ing  Anette  in  his  arms  Lee  kissed  her.  She  rested 
there  for  a  moment;  then,  with  her  hands  against  his 
chest,  pushed  him  away.  "I  can't,  now,"  she  told 

[67] 


CYTHEREA 

him;  "somehow  it's  all  spoiled.  It  seemed  as  though 
you  were  studying  me  disapprovingly.  I'm  not  just 
bad,  you  know." 

"I  don't  think  you  are  bad  at  all,"  he  replied  ir 
ritably;  "you  brought  that  into  it.  Why,  in  the  name 
of  heaven,  should  I?" 

"Fanny  doesn't  like  me,"  she  said  at  a  tangent. 

"Who  put  that  in  your  head?" 

"Fanny.     She's  hardly  civil." 

"If  you  mean  she's  jealous,  she  isn't." 

"You  hardly  need  to  add  that.  Of  course,  I  realize 
Fanny  Randon  couldn't  be  jealous  of  me.  Good 
Lord,  no!  Why  should  she  be?  No  one  would  give 
me  a  thought." 

Anette,  wholly  irrational,  was  furious.  Damn 
women,  anyway !  It  was  impossible  to  get  along  with 
them,  since  they  hadn't  a  grain  of  reason.  He  was 
superior  to  her  temper,  indifferent  to  it,  because  he  was 
indifferent  to  her.  Suddenly  the  charm  she  had  had 
for  him  was  gone,  the  seductiveness  dissolved,  leaving 
only  Anette,  a  fairly  good-looking  girl  he  had  known 
for  a  great  while.  His  warm  response  to  her  was 
dead;  whatever  she  had  aroused  and  satisfied,  or 
left  in  suspense,  no  longer  contented  him.  The 
memory  of  his  interest  in  her,  the  thought  he  had  ex 
pended,  was  now  a  cause  of  surprise,  incomprehen 
sible.  Lee  wanted  to  return  to  the  club  house  and 
Fanny. 

There  was  an  obscure  indication  of  Alice's  hands 

[68] 


CYTHEREA 

raised  in  the  rearrangement  of  her  hair.  George 
Willard  half  turned,  facing  the  rear  of  the  car.  "I 
can't  see  much,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  evident  that  you 
two  have  been  fighting.  Why  don't  you  live  in  peace 
and  happiness?  The  trouble's  all  with  Lee,  too,  you 
don't  have  to  tell  me  that,  Anette;  he  is  too  cursed 
cantankerous;  and  it  would  serve  him  right  if  you'd 
come  up  here  with  us." 

Anette  opened  the  door  and  an  icy  draft  swept 
about  their  knees.  "Not  yet,"  Willard  begged;  "we 
won't  be  missed." 

"You  may  stay  as  long  as  you  want,"  Anette  replied, 
"but  I  am  going  back."  Positively  her  voice  bore 
a  trace  of  tears.  What,  what  was  it  all  about?  It 
was  Alice  who  decided  that  they  should  return  to 
gether:  "The  bottle's  empty,  my  hair  net  is  fixed  for 
the  third  time,  and  we  had  better.  You  get  out, 
George,  please.  No,  I  told  you." 

Lee  Randon  welcomed  the  solid  rushing  of  the 
wind ;  it  swept  in  full  blast  across  the  open  of  the  golf 
course  and  made  walking  precarious.  Anette  was 
lost,  forgotten.  If  the  chill  air  could  only  take  the 
fever,  the  desire,  out  of  his  mind  and  blood!  He 
wished  that  he  might  be  absorbed  into  the  night,  the 
storm,  become  one  with  its  anonymous  force,  one  with 
the  trees  he  heard  laboring  on  their  trunks.  Instead 
of  the  safety  of  being  a  part  of  nature  he  felt  that, 
without  directions,  he  had  been  arbitrarily  set  down  on 
earth,  left  to  wander  blindly  with  no  knowledge  of 

[69] 


C YTHEREA 

his    destination    or    its    means    of    accomplishment. 

Fragments  of  a  dance  measure  were  audible,  and 
he  returned  to  the  pounding  music,  the  heat,  the 
perceptibly  chlorinated  perfumes  and  determined 
activity.  He  went  at  once  in  search  of  his  wife;  she 
had  apparently  not  moved  from  the  chair  in  which 
he  had  left  her.  Meeting  her  slightly  frowning,  ques 
tioning  expression  he  told  her  simply,  without  pre 
meditation  or  reserve,  that  he  had  been  out  in  an 
automobile.  Fanny  was  obviously  not  prepared  for 
his  candor,  and  she  studied  him  with  the  question  held 
on  her  lifted  face.  Then  banishing  that  she  pro 
ceeded  to  scold  him : 

"You  know  how  I  hate  you  to  do  such  things,  and  it 
seems  precisely  as  though  my  wish  were  nothing.  It 
isn't  because  I  am  afraid  of  how  you'll  act,  Lee; 
but  I  will  not  let  you  make  a  fool  of  yourself.  And 
that,  exactly,  is  what  happens.  I  don't  want  women 
like  Anette  to  have  anything  on  you,  or  to  think  you'll 
come  whenever  they  call  you.  I  can't  make  out  what 
it  is  in  your  character  that's  so — so  weak.  There 
simply  isn't  any  other  name  for  it.  I  don't  doubt  you, 
Lee,"  she  repeated,  in  a  different,  fuller  voice,  "I 
know  you  love  me;  and  I  am  just  as  certain  you  have 
never  lied  to  me.  I'm  sure  you  haven't,  in  spite  of 
what  the  girls  say  about  men." 

He  was  cut  by  an  unbearably  sharp,  a  knife-like, 
regret  that  he  had  ever,  with  Fanny,  departed  from  the 
utmost  truth.  Lee  Randon  had  a  sudden  vision,  born 

[70] 


CYTHEREA 

of  that  feeling  returning  from  the  shed,  of  the  illimit 
able  tranquility,  the  release  from  all  triviality,  of  aix 
honesty  beyond  equivocation  or  assault.  Fanny,  in 
her  way,  possessed  it;  but  that,  he  saw,  was  made  vul 
nerable,  open  to  disaster,  through  her  love  for  him. 
It  was  necessary,  for  complete  safety,  to  be  entirely  in 
sulated  from  the  humanity  of  emotions.  That  con 
dition  he  instinctively  put  from  his  thoughts  as  being 
as  undesirable  as  it  was  beyond  realization.  Lee,  with 
all  his  vitality,  drew  away  from  a  conception,  a  figure, 
with  the  cold  immobility  of  death.  After  all,  he  reas 
sured  himself,  he  had  never  essentially  lied  to  Fanny; 
he  had  merely  suppressed  some  unnecessary  details  in 
order  to  make  their  existence  smoother.  The  welcome 
collapse  of  his  small  affair  with  Anette  proved  the 
wisdom  of  avoiding  the  exaggeration  and  difficulty 
of  explanations. 

"Lee,"  Fanny  said,  changing  the  direction  of  their 
thoughts,  "I  don't  want  to  bother  you,  but  I  am  un 
easy  about  Claire  and  Peyton.  He  hasn't  left  Mina 
Raff  a  minute  this  evening.  And  he  has  such  an 
unhappy  expression,  not  at  all  as  though  he  were 
enjoying  himself." 

"I  noticed  that,"  Lee  agreed;  "but  it  will  do  him 
no  good  with  Mina — she's  a  cold  potato,  career's  the 
only  thing  in  her  head."  Then  he  remembered  what 
Mina  Raff  had  told  him  about  her  individuality,  her 
personal  desire;  and  he  repeated  it  to  his  wife. 

[71] 


CYTHEREA 

"I  don't  think  Claire  is  entirely  wise,"  she  went 
on;  "but  you  can't  tell  her  a  thing.  She  listens  as 
sweetly  as  possible  and  then  says  that  she  won't  inter 
fere  with  Peyton.  Well,  someone  else  will.  Claire 
has  too  much  reserve,  she  is  too  well-bred  and  quietly 
superior.  You  wait  and  see  if  I  am  not  right;  life 
is  very  vulgar,  and  it  will  take  advantage  of  her." 

"I  wonder  if  you  are?  Well,  as  you  say,  we  shall 
see.  If  Mina  Raff  fixes  her  mind  on  him  there  will 
be  a  lot  to  watch." 

"You  must  speak  to  him." 

"Now  there,"  Lee  expostulated,  "you  make  me 
sick.  How — will  you  tell  me — can  I  speak  to  Peyton 
until  he  first  says  something?  And  when  that  hap 
pens,  as  easily  as  not  it  may  be  a  cable  from  Peru. 
You  want  to  interfere  too  much,  Fanny,  and  insist 
that  everybody  follow  your  idea  of  right." 

She  retired  into  a  silence  of  wisdom  that  merely 
looked  down  on  him.  Her  face  was  troubled,  her  lips 
tightly  compressed.  "What  time  is  it?"  she  asked 
sharply;  "the  ribbon  of  my  watch  is  worn  out.  Oh, 
we  can  go  home  with  decency.  It  makes  me  rather 
sick  here." 

He  went  below,  for  his  hat  and  coat,  and  found  the 
room  beyond  the  lockers,  built  as  an  informal  cafe 
before  the  era  of  prohibition,  occupied  by  a  number 
of  men  transferring  the  balance  of  fulness  from  a 
row  of  bottles  to  themselves. 

He  accepted  a  drink,  more  for  the  purpose  of  con- 

[72] 


CYTHEREA 

sidering  Peyton  Morris,  moodily  abstracted  by  the 
table,  than  for  itself.  It  seemed  to  Lee  that  the  young 
man  had  actually  aged  since  the  cocktail  party  at  his 
house,  earlier  in  the  evening.  Peyton's  mouth  was 
hard  and  sullen;  his  brow  was  corrugated.  "We're 
going  home,"  Lee  told  him;  "and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
an  hour  ago  Claire  was  tired." 

"She  didn't  tell  me,"  Peyton  responded  punctili 
ously;  "and  certainly  if  she's  low  we'll  go  too."  He 
rose  promptly,  and,  with  his  outer  garb,  accompanied 
Lee  Randon.  His  step  was  uncertain,  and  Lee  put 
a  hand  under  his  elbow.  "Liquored?"  he  asked 
casually. 

"Not  in  my  brain,"  Peyton  Morris  returned:  "it 
seems  like  I  could  never  get  drunk  again;  but  my 
dam'  feet  are  all  over  the  place.  Thanks  for  hang 
ing  on  to  me:  I  have  an  idea  you  are  going  to  drop 
me  pretty  quickly." 

"I  don't  want  to  question  you,"  Randon  said,  "or 
in  any  way  force  a  confidence,  but,  Peyton,  in  addition 
to  the  relationship,  I  am  exceptionally  fond  of  Claire; 
and,  since  helping  you  is  practically  the  same  thing 
as  helping  her — " 

"I  wish  to  Christ  I  had  been  sunk  in  the  North 
Sea,"  Morris  broke  in  bitterly. 

They  were  up  the  stairs  and  standing  on  the  emptied 
floor  of  an  intermission.  Fanny,  prepared  to  leave, 
was  gazing  about  for  him.  "You've  been  an  age," 
she  cried  to  Lee;  "and,  Peyton,  Claire  is  at  last  look- 


CYTHEREA 

ing  for  you;  although  she'd  kill  me  for  saying  it. 
You  had  better  go  outside  a  minute,  first,  and  clear 
your  head." 

He  came  very  near  to  her,  slightly  swaying. 
"Fanny,  you  are  a  darling,  but  you  are  hard;  you  are 
hard  as  the  Commandments." 

"That  is  not  very  kind,  Peyton,"  she  protested; 
"but  I  have  some  common  sense." 

"Haven't  you  any  uncommon  sense?"  he  begged. 
"That's  what  I  want.  A  little  just  now  might  save 
everything." 

"You  must  try  to  find  out,"  she  informed  him; 
"I  think  I  have  been  successful  with  Lee;  anyhow  he 
ought  to  say  so." 

"I  do,"  Lee  Randon  asserted  quickly.  "Fanny  is 
wonderful.  If  I'm  of  no  use  go  to  her." 

"You  don't  know,"  Peyton  muttered;  "you  can 
have  no  idea." 

"What  in  the  world  was  he  talking  about?"  she 
asked  Lee  in  the  automobile. 

"Peyton  is  in  love  with  Mina  Raff,"  he  admitted 
shortly,  in  a  pressure  of  conflicting  emotions. 

"Lee!"  she  exclaimed;  "are  you  sure?  Did  he 
say  so?  That  is  simply  frightful." 

"I  imagine  it's  worse  than  you  realize." 

"Do  you  mean — " 

"Nothing  actual  yet,"  he  interrupted  her  im 
patiently;  "perhaps  nothing  you  would  bother  about. 
But  you'd  be  wrong.  It's  all  in  his  thoughts — some 

[74] 


CYTHEREA 

damned  spoiled  ideal,  and  as  dangerous  as  possible/' 

"Poor  Claire,"  she  said. 

"Of  course,  that's  the  thing  to  say,"  he  agreed. 
"The  man  is  always  a  criminal  in  such  situations." 

"You  are  not  trying  to  defend  him?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

"Maybe  I  am;  I  don't  know.  After  all,  we  are 
jumping  at  conclusions;  Peyton  was  drunk.  But,  for 
heaven's  sake,  if  either  of  them  comes  to  you  don't 
just  be  moral.  Try  to  understand  what  may  have 
happened.  ,If  you  lecture  them  they  will  leave  you 
like  a  shot." 

Fanny  was  driving,  and  she  moved  one  hand  from 
the  wheel  to  his  cheek.  "It  isn't  us,  anyhow,  Lee;  and 
that  is  really  all  I  care  for.  We  are  closer  than 
others,  different.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  if  you 
should  die  first — I  couldn't  move,  I  couldn't  go  on." 

"You  would  have  the  children,"  he  reminded  her. 

"They  are  nothing  compared  with  you."  It  was 
the  only  time  she  had  made  such  an  admission,  and 
it  moved  him  profoundly.  It  at  once  surcharged  him 
with  gratitude  and  an  obscure  disturbance. 

"You  mustn't  pin  so  much  to  me,"  he  protested; 
"you  ought  to  think  of  a  hundred  other  things." 

"I  would  if  I  could;  I  often  try,  but  it  is  impos 
sible.  It  is  terrible  to  care  for  a  man  the  way  I  do 
for  you;  and  that's  why  I  am  so  glad  you  are  what  you 
are:  silly  at  times,  ridiculously  impressionable,  but 
not  at  all  like  George  Willard,  or  Peyton  Morris." 

[75] 


CYTHEREA 

He  had  an  overwhelming  impulse  to  explain  him 
self  in  the  most  searching  unsparing  detail  to  Fanny, 
the  strange  conviction  that  in  doing  it  he  would  antic 
ipate,  perhaps  escape,  grave  trouble.  Lee  Randon 
realized,  however,  that  he  would  have  to  begin  with 
the  doll,  Cytherea ;  and  the  difficulty,  the  preposterous- 
ness,  of  trying  to  make  that  clear  to  his  wife, 
discouraged  and  kept  him  silent.  No  woman,  and 
least  of  any  the  one  to  whom  he  was  married,  could  be 
trusted  to  understand  his  feeling,  his  dissatisfaction  in 
satisfaction,  the  restlessness  at  the  heart  of  his  peace. 

Fanny  went  up  at  once,  but  he  lingered,  with  a 
cigar,  in  the  living  room.  A  clock  struck  one.  A 
photograph  of  Claire  with  her  bridesmaids,  Peyton 
and  his  ushers,  on  a  lawn,  in  the  wide  flowered  hats 
of  summer  and  identical  boutonnieres,  stood  on  a  table 
against  the  wall;  and  beyond  was  an  early  girlish 
picture  of  Fanny,  in  clothes  already  absurdly  out.  of 
mode.  She  had  a  pure  hovering  smile;  the  aspect  of 
innocence  time  had  been  powerless  to  change  was 
accentuated;  and  her  hands  managed  to  convey  an 
impression  of  appeal.  He  had  been,  in  the  phrase 
now  current,  crazy  about  her;  he  was  still,  he  told 
himself  strictly.  Well,  he  was  ...  yet  he  had 
kissed  Anette;  not  for  the  first  time,  either;  but,  he 
recognized,  for  the  last.  He  was  free  of  that!  A 
space,  a  phase,  of  his  life  was  definitely  behind  him. 
A  pervading  regret  mingled  with  the  relief  of  his 
escape  from  what  he  had  finally  seen  as  a  petty 

[76] 


CYTHEREA 

sensuality.  The  little  might,  in  the  sequence,  be 
safer,  better,  than  the  great.  But  he  vigorously  cast 
off  that  ignominious  idea.  A  sense  of  curious  pause, 
stillness,  enveloped  Lee  and  surprised  him,  startled 
him  really,  into  sitting  forward  and  attentive.  The 
wind  had  dropped,  vanished  into  the  night  and  sky: 
the  silence  without  was  as  utter  as  though  Lee  Randon 
were  at  the  center  of  a  vacuum. 


[77] 


II 


ON  Saturday  morning  Lee  telephoned  to  his 
office,  found  nothing  that  required  his  im 
mediate  attention  there  and,  the  brief-case 
again  in  evidence,  stayed  at  Eastlake.  Fanny,  too, 
with  her  hair  severely  plain  and  an  air  of  practical  ac 
complishment,  was  occupied  with  her  day  book.  She 
kept  this  faithfully;  but  Lee  couldn't  decide  whether 
the  obvious  labor  or  her  pleasure  in  the  accomplishment 
were  uppermost.  She  addressed  the  day  book  with  a 
frowning  concentration,  supplementary  additions  and 
subtractions  on  stray  fragments  of  paper,  which  at 
times  brought  him  with  an  offer  of  assistance  to  her 
shoulder.  But  this  she  resolutely  declined — she  must, 
she  insisted,  maintain  her  obligation  along  with  his. 
However,  Fanny,  like  all  other  women,  he  thought, 
was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  principle  of  which  money 
was  no  more  than  a  symbol:  she  saw  it  not  as  an 
obligation,  or  implied  power,  but  as  an  actuality, 
pouring  from  a  central  inexhaustible  place  of  bright 
ringing  gold  and  crisp  currency. 

However,  Fanny  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
the  ease  of  its  possession,  familiar  with  it;  and  that 
had  stamped  her  with  its  superiority  of  finish.  How 
necessary,  he  continued,  money  was  to  women;  or, 
rather,  to  the  women  who  engaged  his  imagination; 

[78] 


CYTHEREA 

and  women  were  usually  the  first  consideration,  the 
jewelled  rewards,  of  wealth.  As  he  visualized,  dwelt 
on,  them,  their  magnetic  grace  of  feeling  and  body 
was  uppermost:  sturdy  utilitarian  women  in  the 
kitchen,  red-faced  maids  dusting  his  stairs,  heavily 
breasted  nurses,  mothers,  wives  at  their  petty  accounts 
— he  ended  abruptly  a  mental  period  escaping  from 
the  bounds  of  propriety.  What  he  meant,  all  that  he 
meant,  was  that  beauty  should  be  the  main  considera 
tion.  Lee  applied  himself  to  far  different  values; 
and,  before  he  had  finished,  lunch  was  ready. 

"I  have  been  thinking  half  the  morning  about 
Claire  and  Peyton,"  Fanny  told  him;  "I  do  feel  that 
we  exaggerated  the  situation  last  night;  it  all  seemed 
more  immediate,  bigger,  than  it  will  turn  out.  Heav 
ens,  as  you  said,  they  can't  do  anything,  nothing  can 
happen." 

He  was  still  inclined  to  believe  that.  "There  is  a 
tremendous  lot  of  talk  and  no  result;  yes — no  one 
really  does  a  thing.  They  want  to,  and  that's  all  it 
comes  to." 

Fanny  cast  a  glance  of  repressed  attention  at  him 
across  a  lower  center-piece.  "If  you  could  be  what 
ever  you  wanted,  what  and  where,  what  would  you 
choose?"  she  asked. 

"Here,  with  you  and  the  children,"  his  voice  replied 
without  hesitation.  The  youth  of  her  expression  was 
happily  stained  by  a  flush.  He  meant  it,  Lee  told 
himself  sharply.  But  about  Peyton — 

[79] 


CYTHEREA 

"Of  course,  he  was  drunk  last  night,  and  he  said 
nothing  conclusive;  he  was  only  wretchedly  unhappy 
— wished  he  had  been  killed  in  the  war  and  all  the 
romantic  rest." 

"It  is  too  much  for  me,"  Fanny  decided  generally; 
"but  I  am  glad  that  I  was  young  when  I  was;  being 
alive  was  quite  simple  then.  I  am  comparatively 
young,  Lee,  'way  under  forty — well,  two  years — but 
you  can't  realize  how  things  have  changed  in  such 
a  short  while.  The  women  we  knew  didn't  even 
smoke  then.  Wasn't  it  only  five  or  six  years  ago  they 
were  first  allowed  to  in  nice  cafes?  And,  not  simply 
that,  men  didn't,  either,  when  they  were  with  us.  We 
used  to  go  to  Cape  May ;  they  called  the  dances  hops ; 
and  do  you,  oh,  do  you,  remember  the  bathing  suits?" 

"I  am  not  so  certain  about  any  great  change,"  he 
objected.  "I  seem  to  recall — " 

"Horrid  people  will  always  be  horrid!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "I  knew  one  or  two  very  fast  girls;  but 
they  were  different  about  it  from  now,  it  was  only 
whispered  around  and  condemned,  and  it's  shouted 
out  today.  I  wish  I  had  known  you  sooner;  I  would 
have  done  a  lot  better  than  your  mother.  I'd  like  to 
have  had  you,  Lee,  as  a  little  boy;  but  I  suppose 
you're  enough  that  yet." 

His  opposition  to  Fanny's  maternal  manner,  di 
rected  at  him,  was  stronger  than  customary;  she 
seemed  to  accept  in  herself  every  responsibility  for 
him;  as  though,  whenever  his  actions  were  unfor- 

[80] 


CYTHEREA 

tunate,  it  had  been  due  to  her  imperfect  control. 
With  practically  no  experience  of  life,  guarded  from 
its  threatening  aspects,  her  attitude  was  that,  not  with 
out  patience,  she  brought  him  with  relative  safety 
through  a  maze  in  which  otherwise  he'd  be  lost.  This 
was  evident  now  in  what  he  felt  to  be  the  complacency 
of  her  voice  and  expression;  and  a  perverse  impulse 
grew  in  him  to  combat  and  shatter  her  blind  satisfac 
tion.  Lee  subdued  this,  in  the  merest  decency;  but 
the  effort  left  him  thoroughly  irritated.  He  found, 
finally,  an  outlet  for  his  annoyance  in  the  restlessness 
of  Helena ;  and  he  ordered  her  from  the  table. 

This  show  of  paternal  discipline  Fanny  met  with 
lowered  eyes  and  a  silence  that  endured  until  Gregory 
had  walked  sedately  from  the  room;  then  she  re 
minded  Lee  that  he  must  never,  absolutely  never, 
correct  his  children  when  he  was  in  an  ill  temper. 

"That's  nonsense,"  he  returned  shortly;  "you  ought 
to  see  that  because  it's  impossible.  Even  theoretically 
I  don't  agree  with  you — a  child  can  understand  a 
punishment  in  which  there  is  some  warmth.  You  are 
dealing  with  a  little  animal  and  not  a  reasonable  be 
ing."  To  this  Fanny  replied  that  her  children  were 
not  animals. 

"Really,  Fanny,  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about,"  he  asserted;  "we  are  all,  men  and 
women  and  children  and  giraffes,  animals.  You 
might  look  that  up  in  the  dictionary." 

"I  haven't  any  need  to,"  she  observed,  with  a  calm- 
[81] 


CYTHEREA 

ness  that  further  tried  him.  "If  the  dictionary  says 
that  it  isn't  a  very  good  one.  And  if  you  are  trying 
to  tell  me  that  Helena  and  Gregory  are  no  better  than 
giraffes  you're  sillier  than  usual." 

"That  isn't  in  the  least  what  I  said,"  Lee  retorted, 
with  widely  separated  words.  "I  wasn't  speaking  of 
the  comparative  but  of  the  absolute.  It  is  a  fact  that 
we  are  animals,  more  responsible  and  with  greater 
powers  than  the  others,  but  animals,  animals." 

"Then  what  is  an  animal?"  Fanny  demanded. 

"A  mammal." 

A  marked  expression  of  distaste  invaded  her.  "It 
has  a  nasty  sound,"  she  admitted  with  her  instinctive 
recoiling  from  life.  "I  don't  see  how  we  got  on  this 
subject  anyhow,  it's  too  much  like  sex.  It  seems  you 
are  able  to  discuss  nothing  else." 

"It  is  only  nasty  in  your  mind,"  he  declared. 

"That's  exactly  like  you,  you  all  over,  to  blame 
things  on  me.  It's  convenient,  I  must  say,  but  not 
fair  nor  true:  it  was  you  who  got  in  a  wicked  temper 
and  sent  Helena,  who  was  feeling  miserable,  away." 

"You  always  say  the  children  are  sick  when  they 
misbehave." 

"I  wish  I  could  be  as  sure  of  you  as  I  was  of  that," 
she  answered  quickly;  "for  instance,  when  you  go 
out  in  automobiles  at  the  dances  with  women." 

"Now,  we  are  beginning,"  he  told  her  with  em 
phasis;  "we  never  had  an  argument  that  didn't 
degenerate  into  this;  and  I'm  sick  of  it." 

[82] 


CYTHEREA 

"I  thought  I  was  the  one  who  was  sick  of  it," 
Fanny  complained;  "I  wonder  that  I  don't  just  let 
you  go." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  said,  rising;  "I  give  you 
my  word,  I'd  rather  be  damned  comfortably  than  have 
this  endless  trouble."  In  a  position  of  unassailable 
quiet  behind  his  papers  he  told  himself  that  the  scene 
with  Fanny  had  been  particularly  vain  because, 
underneath,  he  agreed  with  her  opinion  about  the 
casual  expression  of  small  emotions;  he  no  longer 
wanted  it  any  more  than  she  did.  Yes,  at  last  they 
were  one  there.  And  yet  he  felt  further  from  her 
even  than  before — whatever  his  marriage  hadn't  satis 
fied,  that  he  had  stilled  in  minor  ways,  was  now 
without  check.  The  truth  was  that  it  had  increased, 
become  more  serious,  insistent. 

The  tangible  facts,  the  letters  and  memoranda, 
before  him,  retreated  and  came  back  to  his  conscious 
ness.  Tobacco  worms  had  been  boring  through  his 
cigars,  and  destroyed  a  third  of  the  box.  Helena 
passed,  affecting  a  grievance  out  of  any  proportion  to 
its  cause  in  him.  Outside,  the  country  was  flooded 
with  a  deceptive  golden  radiance ;  and  he  remembered, 
suddenly,  that  Alice  Lucian  had  told  him  to  bring 
Fanny  to  the  Club  and  a  tea  that  afternoon,  which 
she  was  giving  for  Mina  Raff.  He  repeated  this  to 
his  wife,  in  a  conciliatory  regret  at  his  f orgetf ulness ; 
and  she  replied  that  if  he  cared  to  go  she  would  come 
over  later  for  him  in  the  car.  Lee,  standing  at  a 

[83] 


CYTHEREA 

window,  thought  he  wouldn't;  but,  adding  that  Peyton 
would  be  there,  he  decided  that,  in  view  of  the  possible 
developments,  his  presence  might  be  wise.  ' 

The  early  gloom  gathered  familiarly  in  the  long 
main  room  of  the  clubhouse ;  the  fire  cast  out  f anwise 
and  undependable  flickering  light  upon  the  relaxed 
figures;  it  shone  on  tea  cups,  sparkled  in  rich  trans 
lucent  preserves,  and  glimmered  through  a  glass  sugar 
bowl.  It  was  all,  practically,  Lee  Randon  reflected, 
as  it  had  been  before  and  would  be  again.  How  few 
things,  out  of  a  worldful,  the  ordinary  individual  saw, 
saw — that  was — to  comprehend,  to  experience:  a 
limited  number  of  interiors,  certain  roads  and  streets, 
fields  and  views.  He  made  his  way  through  life 
blinded  to  the  customary  and  unaware  of  the  strange; 
summer  was  hot  and  winter,  usually,  cold;  the  spring 
became  green  under  rain;  winds  blew  and  the 
leaves  fell  in  fall— of  how  much  more  was  he 
conscious? 

It  was  the  same  with  regard  to  people;  he,  Lee 
Randon,  knew  a  great  many,  or  rather,  he  could  repeat 
their  names,  recognize  their  superficial  features  at 
sight.  But  to  say  that  he  actually  knew  them — that 
was  nonsense!  Why,  he  was  almost  totally  ignorant 
of  himself.  How  much  could  he  explain  of  Fanny's 
late  state  of  mind?  She  had  done  all  that  was  pos 
sible  to  make  it  clear  to  him;  with  little  result. 
Fanny  was  an  extraordinarily  honest  person;  or, 

[84] 


CYTHEREA 

damn  it,  she  seemed  to  be.  He  had  a  reputation  for 
truthfulness;  but  how  much  of  what  was  in  his  mind 
would  he  admit  to  his  wife?  The  discrepancy  be 
tween  what  he  appeared  and  what  he  felt  himself  to 
be,  what  he  thought  and  what  published,  was  enor 
mous,  astounding. 

There,  as  well,  was  Peyton  Morris ;  Lee  would  have 
sworn  that  he  understood  him  thoroughly — a  charac 
ter  as  simple,  as  obvious  as  Fanny's.  But  here  was 
Morris  seated  with  Mina  Raff  on  the  stairs  to  the 
upper  floor,  beyond  the  radius  of  the  fire;  and,  though 
they  were  not  ten  feet  away,  he  could  not  hear  a  word 
of  what  they  were  saying.  At  intervals  there  was  an 
indistinct  murmur,  nothing  more.  Claire,  at  Lee 
Randon's  side,  was  sitting  with  her  chin  high  and  a 
gaze  concentrated  on  the  twisting  flames:  talking 
generally  had  fallen  into  a  pause. 

The  door  from  without  opened,  Fanny  entered,  and 
there  was  a  momentary  revival  of  animation.  "Is 
Lee  here?"  she  demanded;  "but  I  know  he  is.  The 
fire  is  just  as  attractive  at  home,  yet,  even  with  nothing 
to  do,  he'll  hardly  wait  to  give  it  a  poke.  Where's 
Peyton?" 

"On  the  stairs,"  someone  answered  casually. 

There  was  a  movement,  and  Mina  Raff  approached. 
"It's  so  hot  here,"  she  asserted. 

"It  is  warmer  out,"  Fanny  informed  her;  "I  wonder 
what  the  weather  is  in  New  York?" 

"I  can't  say,  I'm  sure;  but  I  shall  discover  to- 
[85] 


CYTHEREA 

morrow  morning.  I  have  to  be  back  as  early  as 
possible.  Then — work,  work,  work." 

"Mina  has  been  made  a  star,"  Peyton  Morris  an 
nounced.  But  he  stopped  awkwardly,  apparently 
conscious  of  the  warmth,  the  largeness,  in  his  voice. 
Fanny  whispered  to  Lee  that  it  was  quite  too  outrage 
ous.  In  return,  he  asked,  "What?"  and,  indignant, 
she  drew  away  from  him. 

The  conversation  died  again.  Lee  Randon  could 
see  Mina  Raff's  profile,  held  darkly  against  the  glow; 
her  lips  and  chin  were  firm.  "Where,"  Anette  asked 
her,  "shall  you  stay  when  you  get  back — at  Savina 
Grove's?"  No,  Mina  replied,  her  hours  would  be  too 
long  and  uncertain  to  allow  that;  probably  she  would 
be  at  the  Plaza.  Lee  had  heard  the  Groves'  name 
mentioned  before  in  connection  with  Mina  Raff;  and 
he  made  an  effort  to  recall  the  reason.  The  Groves — 
it  was  the  William  Loyd  Groves — were  rather  import 
ant  people,  financially  and  socially;  and  one  of  them, 
yes,  that  was  it,  was  related  to  Mina,  but  which  he 
didn't  know. 

More  came  back  to  him:  Mina  Raff's  parents  had 
died  when  she  was  a  young  girl,  and  the  Groves  had 
rescued  her  from  the  undistinguished  evils  of  improvi 
dence;  she  had  lived  with  them  until,  against  their 
intensest  objections,  she  had  gone  into  moving  pictures. 
Probably  the  Groves'  opposition  had  lasted  until 
Mina's  success;  or,  in  other  words,  their  support  had 

[86] 


CYTHEREA 

been  withheld  from  her  through  the  period  when  it 
had  been  most  needed. 

Yes,  the  girl  had  a  determined  mouth.  If  he,  Lee 
Randon,  had  followed  his  first  inclinations — were 
they  in  the  way  of  literature? — how  different  his  life 
would  have  been.  Mina  Raff  had  been  stronger, 
more  selfish,  than  her  environment:  selfishness  and 
success  were  synonymous.  Yet,  as  a  human  quality, 
it  was  more  hated,  more  reviled,  than  any  other.  Its 
opposite  was  held  as  the  perfect,  the  heavenly,  ethics 
of  conduct.  To  be  sacrificed,  that  was  the  accepted 
essence  of  Christ;  fineness  came  through  relinquish- 
ment.  He  didn't  believe  it,  he  told  himself  fiercely; 
something  deep,  integral,  in  him  revolted  absolutely. 

Mina  Raff  had  been  wholly  justified ;  the  very  people 
who  had  thrown  all  their  weight  against  her  admitted 
it  fully.  It  was  only  when  such  a  self-belief  was 
without  compensating  result,  value,  that  it  was  wrong. 
But  who  could  say  what  any  outcome  would  be? 
Some  people  took  the  chance  and  others  didn't ;  he  had 
not.  Then  the  question  came  up  of  whether  he  had 
not  failed  as  it  was?  No  one  would  agree  with  him 
that  it  might  be  failure;  he  hadn't  called  it  that. 
Suddenly,  vehemently,  he  wished  that  he  could  grow 
old  at  once,  in  a  second;  anything  to  quiet  the  rest 
lessness  at  his  heart. 

Lee  had  a  conviction  that  he  ought  to  decide  the 
case  of  the  individual  against  the  world,  the  feeling 

[87] 


CYTHEREA 

that  it  was  of  the  greatest  importance  to  him;  but  for 
centuries  men  had  considered,  without  answer,  just 
that.  The  thing  to  do  was  to  live,  not  to  think;  for  it 
was  possible  that  those  who  thought,  weighed  causes 
and  results,  hardly  lived  at  all  in  the  sense  he  meant. 
All  the  people  he  knew  were  cautious  before  they  were 
anything  else;  they  existed  primarily  for  their 
stomachs.  The  widely  advertised  beauty  of  self 
sacrifice  was  golden  only  when  it  adorned  like  a  halo 
the  heads  of  others.  That  was  natural,  inevitable  to 
the  struggle  for  survival;  it  didn't  answer  Lee's  ques 
tion,  which,  he  felt,  was  of  the  spirit  rather  than  the 
body. 

"It's  getting  late,"  Fanny  said  briskly.  There  was 
a  general  movement,  sighs  and  the  settling  of  skirts. 
The  lights  were  switched  on,  and  the  fire,  that  had 
been  a  source  of  magic,  became  nothing  more  than 
ugly  grey  charring  logs  with  a  few  thin  tongues  of 
flame.  Lee,  with  his  wife,  stopped  to  say  good-bye 
to  Mina  Raff;  Fanny's  manner  was  bright,  conven 
tional  ;  as  palpably  insincere  to  the  other  woman,  Lee 
was  certain,  as  it  was  to  him.  He  said: 
"I  hope  your  new  picture  will  go  well." 
"Thank  you,"  she  responded,  her  slight  hand 
lingeringly  holding  his;  "perhaps  you  will  like  me 
better  on  the  screen  than  in  reality." 

"Could  you  tell  me  which  was  which?" 
She  hesitated.     "Three  months  ago,  yes,  but  not 
new;  I'm  not  sure  of  myself." 

[88] 


CYTHEREA 

"That  was  positively  indecent,"  Fanny  observed 
afterward;  "she  is  as  bold  as  brass.  I  hope  I  am  not 
as  big  a  fool  as  Claire." 

"Claire  and  you  are  very  different,"  he  told  her;  "I 
have  an  idea  that  she  is  doing  whatever  is  possible. 
But  then  we  don't  know  what  we  are  talking  about: 
it's  fairly  evident  that  Peyton  and  Mina  Raff  are 
interested  in  each  other,  they  may  be  in  love;  and,  if 
they  are,  what  does  that  mean?  It  isn't  your  feeling 
for  the  children  or  mine  for  you;  they  are  both  love; 
yet  what  is  it?" 

"It  is  God  in  us,"  Fanny  said  gravely;  "and  keeps 
us  all,  Helena  and  Gregory  and  you  and  me,  safely 
together." 

She  seldom  spoke  to  him  of  religion,  but  it  dwelt 
closely,  vitally,  within  her,  and  not  as  an  inherited 
abstraction  or  correct  social  observation,  but  definitely 
personal  in  its  intercommunication.  Lee  Randon  had 
none  at  all;  and  in  her  rare  references  to  it  he  could 
only  preserve  an  awkward  silence.  That  had  always 
been  a  bar  between  his  family  and  himself,  particularly 
with  the  children :  he  was  obliged  to  maintain  an  end 
less  hypocrisy  about  the  miracles,  the  dogmas  and 
affairs,  of  Sunday  school  and  the  church.  As  a  child 
he  had  been  so  filled  with  a  literal  Presbyterian 
imagery  that,  when  a  degree  of  reason  discarded 
figures  of  speech  seen  as  concrete  actualities,  nothing 
had  been  left.  With  the  lapse  of  a  purely  pictorial 
heaven  and  hell,  the  loss  of  eternal  white  choirs 

[89] 


CYTHEREA 

and  caldrons  of  the  unrepentant,  only  earth  remained. 

He  could  recall  in  gloomy  detail  his  early  impres 
sion  of  Paradise :  it  was  a  sombre  plain  floating  cloud- 
like  in  air,  with,  doubling  through  it,  an  unspeakable 
sluggish  river  of  blood;  God,  bearded  and  frowning 
in  the  severity  of  chronic  judgment,  dominated  from 
an  architectural  throne  a  throng  of  the  saved  in 
straight  garments  and  sandalled  feet ;  and,  in  the  fore 
ground,  a  lamb  with  a  halo  and  an  uplifted  cross 
was  intent  on  the  baptism  of  individuals  issuing  un 
accountably  white  from  the  thickly  crimson  flood. 

Yet  his  children,  in  a  modified  Episcopalian  form, 
were  being  taught  the  same  thing:  the  Mosaic  God; 
Christ  Jesus  who  took  unto  Himself  the  sin  of  the 
world;  the  rugged  disciple,  St.  Peter  and  the  loving 
disciple,  St.  John.  The  sky,  they  learned,  was  the 
habitation  of  light-winged  angels.  The  ark  was  still 
reported  on  its  memorable  voyage,  with  its  providen 
tial  pairs  of  animals  gathered  from  every  zone,  but 
there  was  a  growing  reticence  about  Jonah.  The 
persistence  of  such  credulity,  Lee  thought,  was  depress 
ing;  just  as  the  churches,  leaning  on  the  broken 
support  of  a  charity  they  were  held  to  dispense,  were 
a  commentary  on  the  poverty  of  the  minds  and  spirits 
of  men. 

Yes,  the  necessity  of  charging  Helena  and  Gregory 
with  such  assurances,  their  rigid  bending  into  mental 
forms,  large  and  small,  in  which  he  had  no  confidence, 

[90] 


CYTHEREA 

put  Lee  outside  the  solidity  of  his  family.  In  the 
instruction,  the  influences,  widely  held  paramount  in 
the  welding  of  polite  Christian  characters,  Fanny  was 
indefatigable — the  piece  of  silver  firmly  clasped  in 
the  hand  for  collection,  the  courtesy  when  addressed 
by  elders,  the  convention  that  nature,  birds,  were 
sentimentally  beneficent.  When  Gregory  brought  out 
these  convictions,  lessons,  in  his  indescribably  fresh 
eager  tones,  Lee  listened  with  a  helpless  disapproval. 

Everything,  it  seemed  to  Lee  Randon,  increased 
the  position  of  self-delusion  at  the  expense  of  what 
he  felt  to  be  reality.  His  doubts,  for  example,  were 
real ;  with  no  will,  no  effort  on  his  part,  they  invaded 
his  mind  ceaselessly.  Cytherea's  disturbing  charm 
was  real,  as  definite  as  Fanny's  quiet  actuality. 
However,  he  wasn't  interested  in  an  abstract  arraign 
ment  of  life,  but  intent  only  on  the  truth  about  him 
self.  Lee  wanted  to  discharge  fully  his  duty  to  ex 
istence — in  the  more  inglorious  phrase,  he  didn't  want 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself — and  yet  it  was  growing 
more  difficult  all  the  while  to  distinguish  folly  from 
sense. 

This  affair,  if  it  did  exist,  of  Peyton's  with  Mina 
Raff  wasn't  so  easily  determined  as  Fanny  insisted. 
Perhaps,  like  his  own,  Peyton  Morris'  life  had  been 
restricted  by  artificial  barriers  thrown  about  the  rebel 
lious  integrity  of  his  fundamental  being.  Few  chil 
dren  could  stand  out  against  the  combined  forces  of 
the  older  world;  but  it  was  conceivable  that,  later, 

[91] 


CYTHEREA 

like  a  chrysalis,  they  might  burst  the  hard,  super 
imposed  skin  and  emerge  triumphant. 

That  damned  problem  of  self-sacrifice! 

How  much  claim  had  men  upon  each  other?  What 
did  children  gain  who  sacrificed  their  lives  for  their 
parents?  It  was  supposed  to  bring  them  nobility; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  didn't  it  develop  in  the  parents 
the  utmost  callous  selfishness;  didn't  the  latter,  as 
their  needs  were  exclusively  consulted,  grow  more 
exacting,  unreasonable?  Was  not  love  itself  the  most 
unreasonable  and  exacting  thing  imaginable? 

Once  surrendered  to  it,  the  tyranny  of  a  beloved 
subject  was  absolute:  Lee  told  himself  that  the  emotion 
he  was  considering — the  most  sacred  of  earthly  ties 
— ignominiously  resembled  the  properties  of  fly  paper. 
He  turned  abruptly  from  that  graceless  thought:  it 
was  a  great  deal  warmer,  and  a  mist,  curiously  tangible 
in  the  night,  was  rising  through  the  bare  branches  of 
the  maple  trees. 

"I  am  going  to  talk  to  Claire,"  Fanny  said  firmly. 

"It  would  do  both  of  you  no  good,"  he  informed 
her;  "besides,  you'll  have  to  take  so  much  for  granted." 

"Claire  will  tell  me." 

"I  wonder?"  They  were  in  their  room,  preparing 
for  bed ;  Fanny,  with  her  hair  spread  in  a  thin  brown 
tide  over  the  chaste  shoulders  of  her  nightgown,  was 
incredibly  like  a  girl.  The  mechanical  sweep  of  her 
hand  with  a  brush  kept  a  brief  sleeve  falling  back 
from  the  thinness  of  her  arm.  How  delicately  method- 

[92] 


CYTHEREA 

ical  she  was — an  indispensable  quality  in  the  repeated 
trying  contacts,  the  lost  privacy,  of  marriage.  So 
much  depended  upon  the  very  elusiveness  which  the 
security  of  possession,  habit,  destroyed. 

"This  love,"  he  continued  his  speculations  aloud, 
"isn't  at  all  understood — we  are  ignorant  about  it  in 
spite  of  endless  experience  and  reports  and  poetry. 
Take  us,"  he  had  one  of  his  dangerous  impulses  of 
complete  honesty,  "before  we  were  married,  while  we 
were  engaged,  we  had  an  impracticable  romantic  at 
traction  for  each  other.  I  know  that  I  thought  of 
you  all  the  time,  day  and  night;  and,  just  because 
you  existed,  the  whole  world  was  full  of  prismatic 
colors;  it  was  as  though  an  orchestra  were  playing 
continually  and  I  were  floating  on  the  finest  music. 
You  were  like  a  figure  in  heaven  that  drew  me  up  to 
you. 

"Well,  that  lasted  quite  a  while  into  our  marriage; 
at  first  I  had  an  even  greater  emotion.  Then,  as 
Helena  and  Gregory  were  born,  it  changed."  Mid 
way  in  the  brushing  of  her  hair  Fanny  was  motion 
less  and  intent.  "I  don't  say  it  decreased,  Fanny, 
that  it  lost  any  of  its  importance;  but  it  did  change; 
and  in  you  as  well  as  me.  It  wasn't  as  prismatic, 
as  musical,  and  there's  no  use  contradicting  me.  I 
can  explain  it  best  for  myself  by  saying  that  my  feel 
ing  for  you  became  largely  tenderness." 

"Oh!"  Fanny  exclaimed,  in  a  little  lifting  gasp; 
"oh,  and  that  tenderness,"  her  cheeks  were  bright 

[93] 


CYTHEREA 

with  sudden  color,  "why,  it  is  no  more  than  pity." 
"That  isn't  just,"  he  replied;  "unless  you  want  to 
speak  of  pity  at  its  very  best.  No,  that  won't  do: 
my  affection  for  you  is  made  of  all  our  experiences, 
our  lives  and  emotions,  together.  We  are  tied  by  a 
thousand  strings — common  disappointments  and  joy 
and  sickness  and  hope  and  pain  and  heaven  knows 
what  else.  We're  held  by  habit,  too,  and  convenience 
and  the  opinion  of  society.  Certainly  it  is  no  smaller 
than  the  first,"  he  argued,  but  more  to  himself  than 
to  Fanny;  "that  was  nothing  but  a  state  of  mind,  of 
spirit;  you  can't  live  on  music." 

"Don't  you  think  you  have  said  enough  for  one 
night?"  she  asked,  in  a  calm  voice  belied  by  the  angry 
sparkle  of  her  eyes,  the  faint  irrepressible  trembling 
of  her  lips.  "Do  you  think  I  want  to  hear  that  it  is 
only  convention  and  our  neighbors  that  keep  you 
with  me?  You  have  no  right  to  insist  that  your  hor- 
ridness  is  true  of  me,  either.  I — I  could  hear  music, 
if  you  would  let  me."  She  sank  on  the  little 
cushioned  bench  before  her  dressing  table,  where  her 
youthfulness  took  on  a  piercing  aspect  of  misery. 
Fanny's  declaration,  not  far  from  tears,  that  she  was 
just  as  she  had  always  been  was  admirably  upheld  by 
her  appealing  presence. 

The  tenderness  he  had  admitted,  reduced  by  a 
perceptive  impatience  and  the  sense  of  having  been 
wholly,  wilfully,  misunderstood,  carried  him  over  to 
her.  He  took  Fanny,  with  her  face  strained  away 

[94] 


CYTHEREA 

from  him,  into  his  arms.  "Don't  be  an  idiot,"  he 
begged  softly;  "you  ought  to  be  used  to  my  talking 
by  now.  Let  me  go  on,  it  can't  come  to  anything — " 
She  stiffened  in  his  embrace: 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  he  answered  shortly,  releasing 
her;  "where  is  all  that  certainty  you  assured  me  of? 
If  you  go  on  like  this  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell  you 
my  thoughts,  discuss  problems  with  you;  and  it  seems 
to  me  that's  very  necessary." 

"It  has  been  lately,"  she  spoke  in  a  metallic  voice; 
"nothing  satisfies  you  any  more;  and  I  suppose  I 
should  have  been  prepared  to  have  you  say  things 
to  me,  too.  But  I'm  not;  you  might  even  find  that 
I  am  not  the  idiot  you  suspect." 

"I  was  giving  you  a  chance  to  prove  that,"  he 
pointed  out. 

"Now  you  have  discovered  the  fatal  truth  you  can 
save  yourself  more  trouble  in  the  future."  She 
emphatically  switched  off  a  light  beside  her,  leaving 
him  standing  in  a  sole  unsparing  illumination.  Yet 
in  her  extreme  resentment  she  was,  he  recognized, 
rubbing  vaseline  into  her  finger  nails,  her  final  nightly 
rite.  Then  there  was  silence  where  once  he  had 
kissed  her  with  a  reluctance  to  lose  her  in  even  the 
short  oblivion  of  sleep. 

Throughout  Monday,  at  his  office,  Lee  Randon 
thought  at  uncomfortable  intervals  of  the  late  incipient 

[95] 


CYTHEREA 

scenes  with  Fanny.  They  had  quarrels — who  hadn't? 
— but  they  had  usually  ended  in  Fanny  shedding 
some  tears  that  warmly  recemented  their  deep  affec 
tions.  This  latter  time,  however,  she  had  not  wept 
— at  the  point  of  dissolving  into  the  old  surrender 
she  had  turned  away  from  him,  both  in  reality  and 
metaphorically,  and  fallen  asleep  in  an  unexpected 
cold  reserve.  He  was  sorry,  for  it  brought  into  their 
relationship  a  definite  new  quality  of  difference.  He 
was  aware  of  the  thorough  inconsistency  of  his  at 
titude  toward  their  marriage;  again  two  opposed 
forces  were  present  in  him — one,  Fanny,  as,  bound 
to  her,  he  knew  and  cherished;  and  the  other — the 
devil  take  the  other! 

He  was  organizing  a  new  company,  and,  figuring 
impatiently,  he  pressed  the  button  for  Mrs.  Wald, 
his  secretary.  She  appeared  at  once  and  quietly,  her 
notebook  and  pencil  ready,  took  a  place  at  his  side. 
"Run  this  out,  please,  Mrs.  Wald,"  and  an  involved 
financial  transaction  followed.  What  he  wanted  to 
ascertain  was,  with  a  preferred  stock  bearing  eight 
per  cent  at  a  stated  capitalization,  and  the  gift  of 
a  bonus  of  common,  share  for  share,  how  much  pie 
would  remain  to  be  cut  up  between  a  Mr.  Hadly, 
Sanford,  and  himself?  The  woman  worked  rapidly, 
in  long  columns  of  minute  neat  figures.  " About 
thirty-four  thousand  dollars,  each,  Mr.  Randon,"  she 
announced  almost  directly.  "Is  that  close  enough, 
or  do  you  want  it  to  the  fraction?" 

[96] 


CYTHEREA 

"Good  enough;  send  Miss  Mathews  in." 
Almost  anyone  on  his  staff,  Lee  reflected,  knew  more 
about  the  processes  of  his  business  than  he  did;  he 
supplied  the  energy,  the  responsibility  of  the  decisions, 
more  than  the  brains  of  his  organization;  and  it  per 
fected  the  details.  The  stenographer,  Miss  Mathews, 
was  very  elaborately  blonde,  very  personable;  and, 
dictating  to  her,  Lee  Randon  remembered  the  advice 
given  him  by  a  large  wielder  of  labor  and  finance. 
"Lee,"  he  had  said,  touching  him  with  the  emphasis 
of  a  finger,  "never  play  around  with  an  employee  or 
a  client." 

He,  John  Lenning  Partins,  had  been  a  man  of  ec 
centric  humors,  and — like  all  individuals  who  sup 
ported  heavy  mental  burdens,  inordinately  taxed  their 
brains — he  had  his  hours,  unknown  to  the  investing 
public,  of  erratic,  but  the  word  was  erotic,  conduct. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  he  had  peremptorily 
telegraphed  for  Lee  to  join  him  at  some  unexpected 
place,  for  a  party.  Once,  following  a  ball  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House,  in  Paris,  they  had  motored  in 
a  taxi-cab,  with  charming  company,  to  Calais.  Dur 
ing  that  short  stay  in  France  John  Partins  had  spent, 
flung  variously  away,  four  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
The  industrious,  the  clerks,  efficient  women  like 
Mrs.  Wald,  the  middle-aged  lawyers  in  his  office,  were 
rewarded  .  .  .  by  a  pension.  It  was  all  very  strange, 
upside  down:  what  rot  that  was  about  the  infinite 
capacity  for  taking  pains !  He  supposed  it  wouldn't 

[97] 


CYTHEREA 

do  to  make  this  public,  the  tritest  maxims  were  safer 
for  the  majority;  but  it  was  too  bad;  it  spread 
the  eternal  hypocrisies  of  living.  He  asked  Miss 
Mathews : 

" You're  not  thinking  of  getting  married,  are  you? 
Because  if  you  do  I'll  have  your  young  man  deported; 
I  simply  won't  let  go  of  you." 

"I  don't  see  any  signs  of  it,  Mr.  Randon,"  she 
replied,  half  serious  and  half  smiling;  "my  mother 
thinks  it's  awful,  but  I'm  not  in  any  hurry.  There 
are  men  I  know,  who  might  like  me;  they  show  me 
a  very  good  time ;  -but  somehow  I  am  not  anxious.  I 
guess  in  a  way  it's  the  other  married  girls  I  see:  either 
they  housework  at  home,  and  I  couldn't  be  bothered 
with  that;  or  they  are  in  an  office  and,  somehow,  that 
seems  wrong,  too.  I  want  so  much,"  she  admitted; 
"and  with  what  clothes  cost  now  it's  terrible." 

"Moralists  and  social  investigators  would  call  you 
a  bad  girl,"  he  told  her;  "but  I  agree  with  you;  get 
your  pretty  hats  and  suits,  and  smart  shoes,  as  long 
as  you  are  able.  You're  not  a  bit  better  in  a  kitchen 
than  you  are  here,  taking  dictation  from  me;  and  I 
am  not  sure  you  would  be  more  valuable  at  home 
with  a  child  or  two.  You  are  a  very  unusual  sten 
ographer,  rapid  and  accurate,  and  you  have  a  good 
mind  in  addition  to  your  figure.  Why  should  you 
lose  all  that  at  once,  give  it  up,  for  the  accidents  of 
cholera  infantum  and  a  man,  as  likely  as  not,  with  a 
consumptive  lung?" 

[98] 


CYTHEREA 

"But  what  about  love,  Mr.  Randon?  That's  what 
throws  me  off.  Some  say  it's  the  only  thing  in  life." 

"I'm  damned  if  I  know,"  he  admitted,  leaning 
back  from  his  wide  flat-topped  desk.  "I  hear  the 
same  thing,  and  I  am  rather  inclined  to  believe  it. 
But  I  have  an  idea  that  it  is  very  different  from  what 
most  people  insist;  I  don't  think  it  is  very  useful 
around  the  house;  it  has  more  to  do  with  the  pretty 
hat  than  with  a  dishpan.  If  you  fall  in  love  go 
after  the  thing  itself,  then;  don't  hesitate  about  to 
morrow  or  yesterday;  and,  above  all  else,  don't  ask 
yourself  if  it  will  last;  that's  immaterial." 

"You  make  it  sound  wild  enough,"  she  com 
mented,  rising. 

"The  wilder  the  better,"  he  insisted;  "if  it  is  not 
delirious  it's  nothing." 

The  road  and  countryside  over  which  he  returned 
in  the  motor  sedan,  partly  frozen,  were  streaked  by 
rills  of  muddy  surface  water;  the  sky,  which 
appeared  definitely  to  rest  on  the  surrounding  hills, 
was  grey  with  a  faint  suffusion  of  yellow  at  the 
western  horizon.  It  was  all  as  dreary,  as  sodden,  as 
possible.  Eastlake,  appearing  beyond  a  shoulder  of 
bare  woods,  showed  a  monotonous  scattering  of  wet 
black  roofs,  raw  brick  chimneys,  at  the  end  of  a  long 
paved  highway  glistening  with  steel  tracks. 

Lee  Randon  was  weary,  depressed:  nothing  in  his 
life,  in  any  existence,  offered  the  least  recompense  for 
the  misfortune  of  having  been  born.  He  left  his 

[99] 


CYTHEREA 

car  at  the  entrance  of  his  dwelling;  Christopher,  the 
gardener,  came  sloshing  over  the  sod  to  take  it  into 
the  garage;  and,  within,  he  found  the  dinner-table 
set  for  three.  "It's  Claire,"  his  wife  informed  him; 
"she  called  up  not  half  an  hour  ago  to  ask  if  she 
could  come.  Peyton  was  away  over  night,  she  said, 
and  she  wanted  to  see  us."  He  went  on  up  to  his 
room,  inattentive  even  to  Claire's  possible  troubles. 

He  dressed  slowly,  automatically,  and  descended 
to  the  fire-lit  space  that  held  Cytherea  in  her  mocking, 
her  becoming,  aloofness.  In  the  brightly  illum 
inated  room  beyond  the  hall  Helena  and  Gregory 
were  playing  parchesi — Gregory  firmly  grasped  the 
cup  from  which  he  intently  rolled  the  dice;  Helena 
shook  the  fair  hair  from  her  eyes  and,  it  immediately 
developed,  moved  a  pink  marker  farther  than  proper. 

"You  only  got  seven!"  Gregory  exclaimed;  "and 
you  took  it  nine  right  on  that  safety." 

"What  if  I  did?"  she  returned  undisturbed.  "I 
guess  a  girl  can  make  a  mistake  without  having 
somebody  yell  at  her.  Your  manners  aren't  very 
good." 

"Yes,  they  are,  too,"  he  asserted,  aggrieved;  "I 
have  to  tell  you  if  you  move  to  a  safety  where  you 
don't  belong."  He  shook  the  dice  from  the  cup. 
"Now,  see  there — that  just  brings  me  to  your  man, 
and  I  can  send  him  home." 

"I  don't  care,"  Helena  informed  him;  "it's  a 
young  sort  of  game,  anyhow.  Now  I'm  wearing 

[100] 


CYTHEREA;  ; 

waists  and  buttoned  skirts  I'd  just  as  leaves  write,  a 
letter  to  Margaret  West  with  no;bpys  in,  ic.at.  all," 
She  left  the  parchesi  board,  and  crossed  the  room 
to  the  piano,  where  she  stood  turning  over  sheets  of 
music  with  a  successful  appearance  of  critical 
interest.  Gregory,  silently  struggling  with  the  in 
justice  of  this,  gazed  up  with  a  shadowed  brow  at 
Lee.  "I  was  going  to  beat  her,"  he  said,  "I  was 
almost  home,  and  she  went  away.  She  just  got  up 
like  nothing  was  happening."  Helena  put  in,  "Nei 
ther  there  was."  Lee  Randon  took  her  place. 
"You  can  beat  me  instead,"  he  proposed.  His 
interest  in  the  game,  he  felt,  was  as  false  as  Helena's 
pretended  musical  preoccupation;  but  he  rolled  the 
dice  and  shifted  the  counters,  under  Gregory's  un- 
deviating  scrutiny,  with  the  conviction  that  parchesi 
was  not  conspicuously  different  from  the  other  more 
resounding  movements  of  the  world  and  its  affairs. 
Gregory  easily  vanquished  him,  and  Lee  rose  with  a 
curt,  unwarranted  nod  of  dismissal. 

Freezing  cocktails  in  the  pewter  pitcher,  in  the  rep 
etition  of  minor  duties  which,  Lee  Randon  thought, 
now  constituted  four-fifths  of  his  life,  he  told  himself 
that  Claire  Morris  had  never  looked  better:  she  was 
wearing  a  dress  of  a  soft  negative  blue  material,  high 
about  her  throat,  with  glimpses  of  bright  embroidery 
that  brought  out  her  darkly  vivid  personality. 
Claire  had  a  slim  low-breasted  figure,  gracefully 

[101] 


.-  C  YTHEREA 

,  broad  .shoulders ;.  and  her  face,  it  might  be  because 
pi  ;ks  definite, -almost,  sharp,  outline,  held  the  stamp 
of  decided  opinions.  Claire's  appearance,  he  recog 
nized,  her  bearing,  gave  an  impression  of  arrogance 
which,  however,  was  only  superficially  true — she 
could  be  very  disagreeable  in  situations,  with  people, 
that  she  found  inferior,  brutally  casual  and  unsym 
pathetic;  but  more  privately,  intimately,  she  was 
remarkably  simple-hearted,  free  from  reserve.  She 
was  related  to  Lee  through  her  father,  a  good  blood, 
he  told  himself;  but  her  mother  had  brought  her  a 
concentration  of  what  particular  vigorous  aristocracy 
— an  unlimited  habit  of  luxury  without  the  respon 
sibility  of  acknowledged  place — the  land  afforded. 

The  drinks  had  been  consumed,  the  soup  disposed 
of,  when  Claire  said  abruptly,  "Peyton  is  going  to 
leave  me." 

Although,  in  a  way,  Lee  had  been  prepared  for 
such  an  announcement,  the  actuality  upset  him  ex 
tremely.  Fanny  gasped,  and  then  nodded  warningly 
toward  the  waitress,  leaving  the  dining-room;  at  any 
conceivable  disaster,  he  reflected,  Fanny  would  con 
sider  the  proprieties. 

"When  did  he  tell  you?"  Fanny  demanded. 

"He  didn't,"  Claire  replied;  "I  told  him.  It  was 
a  great  relief  to  both  of  us." 

"Say  what  you  like  outside,"  Lee  put  in  vigor 
ously;  "but  at  least  with  us  be  honest." 

"I    am,    quite,"    she    assured    him;    "naturally    I 
[102] 


CYTHEREA 

don't  want  Peyton  to  go — I  happen  to  love  him. 
And  there's  Ira.  But  it  was  an  impossible  position; 
it  couldn't  go  on,  Peyton  was  absolutely  wretched, 
we  both  were;  and  so  I  ended  it.  I  laid  out  all  his 
best  silk  pajamas  so  that  he'd  look  smart — " 

"How  can  you?"  Fanny  cried;  "oh,  how  can 
you?  It  is  too  wicked,  all  too  horrible,  for  words. 
I  don't  think  you  are  advanced  or  superior,  Claire, 
you  failed  him  and  yourself  both.  It's  perfectly 
amazing  to  me,  after  the  men  you  have  met,  that  you 
don't  know  them.  You  must  keep  them  going  in  the 
right  direction;  you  can't  let  them  stop,  or  look 
around,  once;  I  only  learned  that  lately,  but  it  is  so. 
They  haven't  an  idea  of  what  they  want,  and  they  try 
everything.  Then  if  you  let  a  man  go  he  is  the 
first  to  blame  you;  it's  like  winking  at  murder." 

"How  could  I  keep  him  when  he  didn't  want  to 
stay?"  Claire  asked  wearily;  "I  am  not  too  moral, 
but  I  couldn't  quite  manage  that.  Then  what  you 
say  might  do  for  some  men,  but  not  Peyton.  You 
see,  he  has  always  been  very  pure;  all  his  friends  at 
Princeton  were  like  that;  they  were  proud  of  it  and 
very  severe  on  the  other.  And  afterwards,  when  he 
went  into  the  city,  it  was  the  same;  Peyton  would  get 
drunk  any  number  of  times  with  any  number  of  men, 
but,  as  he  said,  he  was  off  women.  The  stage  door, 
it  seems,  is  very  old-fashioned  now. 

"When  we  were  engaged,  and  he  told  me  that  he 
was  really  pure,  I  was  simply  mad  with  happiness. 

[103] 


CYTHEREA 

I  thought  it  was  such  a  marvelous  thing  for  a  girl  to 
find.  I  still  think  that;  and  yet,  I  don't  know.  If 
he  were  different,  had  had  more  experience,  perhaps 
this  wouldn't  have  hit  him  so  hard.  He  would  have 
kissed  his  Mina  on  the  porch,  outside  the  dance,  and 
come  home." 

"As  for  that  Raff  woman — "  Fanny  stopped,  at 
a  loss  for  a  term  to  express  her  disgust. 

"Why  not?"  Claire  asked.  "She  wanted  Peyton 
and  went  after  him:  he  isn't  for  her  art,  I  believe, 
but  for  herself.  I  haven't  talked  to  her;  I  can't 
make  up  my  mind  about  that.  Probably  it  would 
do  no  good.  Peyton  is  splendidly  healthy;  it  won't 
be  necessary  to  tell  her  anything  about  draughts  and 
stomach  bands." 

"Claire,  you're  utterly,  tragically  wrong,"  Fanny 
wailed.  "I  wish  I  could  shake  sense  into  you.  Up 
to  a  point  this  is  your  fault;  you  are  behaving  in  a 
criminally  foolish  way." 

"What  do  you  think  Claire  should  do?"  Lee  asked 
his  wife. 

She  turned  to  him,  a  flood  of  speech  on  her  lips; 
but,  suddenly,  she  suppressed  it;  the  expression,  the 
lines,  of  concern  were  banished  from  her  face. 
"There  is  so  much,"  she  replied  equably;  "they 
haven't  discussed  it  enough;  why,  it  ought  to  take  a 
year,  two,  before  they  reached  such  a  decision. 
Peyton  can't  know  his  mind,  nor  Claire  hers.  And 
Ira,  that  darling  innocent  little  child." 

[104] 


CYTHEREA 

"Damn  Ira!"  Claire  Morris  exclaimed. 

"You  mustn't,"  Fanny  asserted;  "you're  not  your 
self.  Mina  Raff  should  be  burned  alive,  something 
terrible  done  to  her."  Fanny's  voice  had  the  hard 
cold  edge  of  fanatical  conviction.  "If  she  had 
come  into  my  house  making  trouble.  .  .  .  But  that 
couldn't  have  happened;  I'd  have  known  at  once." 

"You  are  more  feminine  than  I  am,"  Claire  told 
her.  "I  see  this  in  a  very  detached  manner,  as  if  it 
didn't  concern  me.  I  suppose  I  can't  realize  that  it 
has  happened  to  us.  It  has!  But  if  you  are  right, 
Fanny,  and  it's  necessary  to  treat  a  man  like  a  green 
hunter,  then  this  was  bound  to  occur.  I  couldn't  do 
anything  so — so  humiliating;  he  could  bolt  sooner  or 
later.  I  did  the  best  I  knew  how:  I  was  amusing  as 
possible  and  always  looked  well  enough.  I  never 
bothered  Peyton  about  himself  and  encouraged  him 
to  keep  as  much  of  his  freedom  as  possible. 

"I  don't  believe  in  the  other,"  she  said  to  Fanny 
Randon  in  a  sharp  accession  of  rebellion;  "it  is  de 
grading,  and  I  won't  live  that  way,  I  won't  put  up 
with  it.  If  he  wants  to  go,  to  be  with  Mina  Raff, 
how  in  God's  name  can  I  stop  it?  I  won't  have  him 
in  my  bed  with  another  woman  in  his  heart;  I  made 
that  clear  to  you.  And  I  can't  have  him  hot  and 
cold — now  all  Mina  and  then  the  sanctity  of  his 
home.  I've  never  had  a  house  of  that  kind;  it  was 
christened,  like  a  ship,  with  champagne. 

"I  have  never  cared  for  domestic  things.  I'd  rather 
[105] 


CYTHEREA 

wear  a  dinner-gown  than  an  apron;  I'd  a  damn  sight 
rather  spin  a  roulette  wheel  than  rock  a  cradle.  And, 
perhaps,  Peyton  wanted  a  housewife;  though  heaven 
knows  he  hasn't  turned  to  one.  It's  her  blonde,  no 
bland,  charm  and  destructive  air  of  innocence.  I've 
admitted  and  understood  too  much;  but  I  couldn't 
help  it — my  mother  and  grandmother,  all  that  lot, 
were  the  same  way,  and  went  after  things  themselves. 
The  men  hated  sham  and  sentimentality;  they  asked, 
and  gave,  nothing." 

Fanny,  it  was  evident,  was  growing  impatient  at 
what  was  not  without  its  challenge  of  her  character 
and  expressed  convictions.  "I  do  agree  with  you, 
Claire,  that  we  are  not  alike,"  she  admitted.  Her 
voice  bore  a  perceptible  note  of  complacency,  of 
superior  strength  and  position.  "Just  last  week  I 
was  telling  Lee  that  I  belonged  before  the  war — things 
were  so  different  then,  and,  apparently,  it's  only  in 
my  house  they  haven't  changed.  We  are  frightfully 
behind  the  times,  and  you'd  be  surprised  at  how  glad 
we  are.  It  was  your  mother's  father,  wasn't  it,  who 
fell  in  love  with  the  Spanish  woman  while  he  was 
in  the  Embassy  at  Seville?  My  family  weren't  people 
of  public  connections,  although  a  great-aunt  married 
Senator  Carlinton;  but  they  had  the  highest  prin 
ciples." 

"They  were  lucky,"  Claire  Morris  replied  indif 
ferently;  "I  am  beginning  to  think  it  isn't  what  you 
have  so  much  as  what  happens  to  it.  Anyhow,  Peyton 

[106] 


CYTHEREA 

is  going  away  with  Mina  Raff,  and  I  am  sorry  for 
him ;  he's  so  young  and  so  certain ;  but  this  has  shaken 
him.  Peyton's  a  snob,  really,  like  the  rest  of  his 
friends,  and  Mina's  crowd  won't  have  that  for  a 
moment:  he  can't  go  through  her  world  judging  men 
by  their  slang  and  by  whom  they  knew  at  college. 
I  envy  him,  it  will  be  a  tremendously  interesting  ex 
perience."  If  her  eyes  were  particularly  brilliant 
it  was  because  they  were  surrounded  by  an  extreme 
darkness.  Her  voice,  commonly  no  more  than  a  little 
rough  in  its  deliberate  forthrightness,  was  high  and 
metallic.  She  gave  Lee  the  heroic  impression  that 
no  most  mighty  tempest  would  ever  see  her  robbed 
of  her  erect  defiance.  It  was  at  once  her  weakness 
and  strength  that  she  could  be  broken  but  not  bent. 

After  dinner  Claire,  who  was  staying  with  the  Ran- 
dons  until  tomorrow,  played  picquet  with  Lee;  and 
his  wife,  her  shapely  feet  elevated  above  the  possible 
airs  of  the  floor,  continued  to  draw  threads  from  the 
handkerchiefs  she  was  making  for  Christmas.  Claire 
played  very  well  and,  at  five  cents  a  point,  he  had 
to  watch  the  game.  On  a  specially  big  hand  she 
piqued  and  repiqued.  "That,"  she  declared,  "will 
pay  you  for  caputting  me."  The  jargon  of  their  pre 
occupation,  UA  point  of  six;  yes,  to  the  ace;  paid; 
and  a  quatorze,  kings,"  was  the  only  sound  until 
Fanny  rose,  decidedly.  "I  am  going  to  bed."  She 
hesitated  at  the  door.  "I  hope  you'll  be  comfortable, 

[107] 


CYTHEREA 

Claire:  I  had  some  club  soda  and  rye  put  in  your 
room,  since  you  like  it  so  well.  Don't  be  too  late, 
please,  Lee;  it  makes  you  tired  starting  so  early  in 
the  morning." 

"You'll   have  to  forgive  me,"   Claire  said,  when 
Fanny  had  gone;   "but   I  don't — I  never  did — like 


women." 


"Do  you  think  any  more  of  men,  now?" 

"Heavens,  yes.  I  wish  I  could  find  someone  to 
blame  for  what  has  happened,  Peyton  specially,  but 
I  can't,  not  to  save  my  life.  It  seems  so  hopelessly 
inevitable.  I  don't  want  you  to  suppose  I'm  not  un 
happy,  Lee;  or  that  I  care  only  a  little  for  Peyton. 
I  love  him  very  much;  I  needed  him,  and  my  love, 
more  than  I  can  explain.  As  Fanny  as  good  as  told 
me,  I  am  a  wild  bird;  anything,  almost,  with  what 
is  behind  me,  may  happen.  It  was  just  the  irony 
of  chance  that  this  affair  caught  Peyton,  the  im 
maculate,  instead  of  me.  I  was  awfully  glad  that 
I  had  an  anchor  that  seemed  so  strong;  in  my  own 
faulty  way  I  adored  everything  I  had ;  I  wanted  to  be 
tranquil,  and  it  had  a  look  of  security." 

"It  isn't  over,  Claire,"  Lee  asserted.  "I  haven't 
seen  that  young  fool  yet." 

"Please  don't  bother  him;  and  it's  too  much  to 
drag  out  the  moralities  on  my  account." 

"Moralities!"  he  echoed  indignantly,  "who  said  a 
word  about  them?  I'm  not  interested  in  morals. 
Lord,  Claire,  how  little  you  know  me.  And  as  for 

[108] 


CYTHEREA 

bothering  him,  he'll  have  to  put  up  with  that.  He 
has  invited  a  certain  amount  of  it." 

They  forgot  the  game  and  faced  each  other  across 
the  disordered  cards.  "If  I  won't  argue  with  him," 
she  insisted,  "you  can't.  But  we  needn't  discuss  it 
— he  won't  listen  to  you,  Peyton's  all  gone.  I  never 
saw  such  a  complete  wreck." 

"He  can't  avoid  it,"  Lee  went  on;  "I'll  have  to  do 
it  if  it  is  only  for  myself;  I  am  most  infernally 
curious  about  the  whole  works.  I  want  to  find  out 
what  it's  about." 

"If  you  mean  love,  he  can't  tell  you;  he  hasn't 
had  enough  experience  to  express  it.  You  might 
do  better  with  me." 

"No,  I  want  it  from  the  man;  a  woman's  feeling, 
even  yours,  would  do  me  no  good.  You  see,  this 
has  always  been  explored,  accounted  for,  condemned, 
written  about,  from  the  feminine  side.  Where  the 
man  is  considered  it  is  always  in  the  most  damnable 
light.  If,  in  the  novels,  a  man  leaves  his  home  he 
is  a  rascal  of  the  darkest  sort,  and  his  end  is  a  re 
morse  no  one  would  care  to  invite.  That  may  be, 
but  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  No,  dear  Claire,  I 
am  not  considering  it  in  preparation  for  anything; 
I  want  to  know;  that's  all." 

"The  books  are  stuff,  of  course,"  she  agreed.  "The 
grandfather  of  mine  who  was  killed  in  Madrid — it 
wasn't  Seville — must  have  had  a  gorgeous  time:  a 
love  affair  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful  we  men 

[109] 


CYTHEREA 

alive.  It  lasted  five  months  before  it  was  found  out 
and  ended;  and  his  wife  and  he  had  been  sick  of 
living  together.  After  it  was  over  she  was  pleased 
at  being  connected  with  such  a  celebrated  scandal; 
it  made  her  better  looking  by  reflected  loveliness.  She 
was  rather  second  class,  I  believe,  and  particularly 
fancied  the  duchess  part." 

"It  wouldn't  be  like  that  in  the  current  novels,  or 
even  in  the  better:  either  your  grandparent  or  the 
duchess  would  be  a  villainous  person,  and  the  other 
a  victim.  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  most  of  the  ideas 
about  life  and  conduct  are  lifted  from  cheap  fiction. 
They  have  the  look  of  it.  But  that  realization, 
wouldn't  help  us,  with  the  world  entirely  on  the  other 
side." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  Claire  objected;  "and  it's  getting 
less  so  all  around  us.  Perhaps  men  haven't  changed 
much,  yet;  but  you  don't  hear  the  women  talk  as  I 
do.  I  don't  like  them,  as  I  said;  they  are  too  damned 
skulking  for  me;  but  they  are  gathering  a  lot  more 
sense  in  a  short  while." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  there,"  he  replied;  "you 
are  getting  your  own  infinitesimal  world  confused  with 
the  real  overwhelming  majority;  you  haven't  an  idea 
how  it  feels  and,  in  particular,  of  what  it  thinks  of 
you,  smoking  and  gambling  and  damning  your  fate. 
It  may  be  largely  envy — personally  I  am  convinced 
it  is — but  they  have  you  ticketed  straight  for  hell 
just  the  same." 

[no] 


CYTHEREA 

"It  doesn't  interest  me."  Claire  increasingly 
showed  the  strain,  the  unhappiness,  through  which  she 
was  passing.  Nor  did  it  him,  he  ended  lamely,  ex 
cept  in  the  abstract.  This  at  once  had  the  elements 
of  a  lie  and  the  unelaborate  truth;  he  couldn't  see 
how  his  curiosity  applied  to  him,  and  yet  he  was 
intent  on  its  solving.  The  fixed  mobile  smile  of 
Cytherea  flashed  into  his  thoughts.  His  perpetual 
restlessness  struck  through  him. 

His  attitude  toward  the  Morrises  was  largely  dic 
tated  by  his  fondness  for  Claire.  He  had  determined 
what,  exactly,  he  would  say  to  Peyton.  Yet,  as  a 
fact,  he  returned  to  his  former  assertion  to  Fanny; 
the  boy  would  make  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
discuss  such  intimate  relationships.  And  as  Claire 
had  pointed  out,  the  very  openness  of  Peyton's  life 
would  make  him  exceptionally  far  to  reach;  he  was 
particularly  youthful  in  his  hardness,  his  confidence 
in  his  acts  and  friends  and  beliefs ;  yet  all  that  couldn't 
help  but  be  upset  now. 

"Fanny  will  think  I  have  designs  on  you,"  Claire 
remarked;  "go  up  when  you  like.  I  am  not  a  bit 
sleepy." 

Lee  had  no  intention  of  going  to  bed  then,  and 
told  her  so.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  perhaps,  with 
Claire,  he  might  discover  something  that  would  set  his 
questioning  at  rest.  Vain  delusion.  He  asked  what 
her  plans  were: 

"I'll  stay  in  Eastlake  for  the  winter,  and,  in  March, 

[mi 


CYTHEREA 

go  to  Italy,  to  give  Peyton  his  divorce — Florence; 
I  lived  a  while  at  Arcetri;  it's  very  lovely." 

He  had  a  momentary  experimental  vision  of  a  small 
yellow  villa  among  the  olives  of  the  Florentine  hills,  of 
crumbling  pink  walls  with  emerald  green  lizards  along 
the  stones,  of  myrtles  and  remarkable  lilies-of-the- 
valley.  Twenty  years  ago  it  would  have  drawn  him 
irresistibly;  but  not  now;  he  wanted — where  his  wants 
were  articulate — a  far  different  thing.  It  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  Italy,  or  any  other  country;  his  in- 
tentness  had  been  withdrawn  from  the  surfaces  of  life, 
however  charming;  they  had  plunged  into  the  pro- 
founder  mysteries  of  being.  Lee  had  gained  nothing 
if  not  a  certain  freedom  from  exterior  circumstance; 
his  implied  revolt  against  trivialities,  if  it  did  no 
other  good,  had  at  least  liberated  him  from  the  furni 
ture  of  existence.  However,  it  had  begun  to  appear 
that  this  was  not  an  unmixed  blessing;  he  had  the 
uncomfortable  sensation  of  having  put  out,  on  a  limit 
less  sea,  in  a  very  little  boat  too  late  to  arrive  at  any 
far  hidden  desirable  coast. 

Claire  shivered,  and,  discovering  that  she  was  cold, 
he  insisted  on  her  going  upstairs.  "To  my  pure 
sheets,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of  her  familiar  daring. 
Left  alone,  Lee  was  depressed  by  the  hour;  the  room, 
his  house,  seemed  strange,  meaningless,  to  him.  There 
was  a  menace  in  the  unnatural  stillness;  Fanny's  un 
finished  handkerchief,  her  stool,  were  without  the 
warmth  of  familiar  association.  It  might  have  been 

[112] 


CYTHEREA 

a  place  into  which  he  had  wandered  by  accident, 
where  he  didn't  belong,  wouldn't  stay.  It  was  incon 
ceivable  that,  above  him,  his  wife  and  children  were 
sleeping;  the  ceiling,  the  supine  heavy  bodies,  seemed 
to  sag  until  they  rested  on  his  shoulders;  he  was,  like 
Atlas,  holding  the  whole  house  up.  It  was  with  acute 
difficulty  that  he  shook  off  the  illusion,  the  weight. 
From  outside  came  the  thin  howling  of  a  dog,  and  it, 
too,  seemed  to  hold  a  remote  and  desperate  interro 
gation. 

He  slept  badly,  in  short  broken  stretches,  with  the 
Morrises  constantly  in  his  mind;  and  what,  in  the 
slightest  dislocation  of  reality,  was  dream  and  what 
waking  he  couldn't  determine;  at  times  his  vision 
seemed  to  hold  both — a  door,  the  irrevocable  door, 
swung  open,  the  end  impended,  but  he  was  unable  to 
see  the  faces  of  the  man  and  woman;  when  he  looked 
anxiously  a  blind  spot  intervened.  The  morning 
found  him  unrefreshed,  impatient;  and  he  was  glad 
that  his  early  breakfast  was  solitary;  Lee  didn't  want 
then  to  see  either  Claire  or  Fanny,  he  was  in  no  mood 
to  discuss  Peyton's  seizure.  That,  it  seemed  to  Lee 
Randon,  was  exactly  what  had  happened  to  the 
younger  man — Peyton  had  gone  within  the  region  of 
a  contagious  fever  that  had  run  through  all  his  blood. 

Yet,  at  dinner,  to  his  surprise,  Fanny  said  very 
little  about  what  had  entirely  occupied  their  thoughts ; 
she  was  quiet,  reserved;  her  attitude  was  marked  by 

[113] 


CYTHEREA 

a  careful  dignity.  Her  gaze,  even  more  than  com 
monly,  rested  on  her  husband.  "I  had  a  wretched 
night,  too,"  she  told  him;  "my  head  is  like  a  kite. 
I've  thought  and  thought  until  my  brain  aches,  it  is 
so  full.  But  there  are  some  things  I  decided;  and  if 
you  don't  agree  with  them  I'm  sorry;  because,  Lee, 
I  am  right,  I  am  indeed." 

"Of  course  you  are,"  he  replied;  "but,  possibly, 
only  for  yourself.  I  mean,  for  instance,  that  you 
can't  be  sure  you're  right  for  Claire." 

"No,  no,  that's  just  the  same  as  saying  there  isn't 
any  right  or  wrong  at  all,  and  you  know  better.  Yes, 
what  I  am  certain  about  is  duty;  you  must  do  that 
before  everything  else.  Peyton's  duty  is  to  Claire 
and  their  child.  It  is  as  clear  as  this  soup.  Nothing 
else  matters  so  much,  or  at  all.  Why,  Lee,  the  world 
is  made  up  of  people  doing  their  duty;  what,  I'd  like 
to  know,  would  become  of  it  if  they  didn't?  You 
don't  seem  to  realize  it,  but  there  are  loads  of  obliga 
tions  I  get  dreadfully  tired  of,  like  the  Social  Service 
when  it  is  my  month  to  follow  the  accounts,  and  visits 
to  Annie  Hazard  who  has  a  cancer  of  the  stomach 
and  is  dying,  and  thinking  every  day  what  to  get  you 
and  the  children  and  the  servants  to  eat.  Suppose, 
some  morning,  I  didn't  stir,  but  just  rested  in  bed — 
what  would  happen?  What  did  happen  last  winter 
when  I  had  pleurisy?  Why,  the  whole  house  went  to 
pieces,  and,  when  you  weren't  worrying  about  me, 
while  I  was  getting  well,  you  were  the  most  un- 

[114] 


CYTHEREA 

comfortable  man  imaginable.  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  I  am  complaining,  or  that  I  don't  love  every 
minute  and  stick  and  stone  of  my  home  and  life; 
I  do.  But  you  seem  to  forget  about  me  ...  that's 
because  the  house  goes  along  so  smoothly.  It  would 
be  a  good  lesson  if  you  had  to  live  with  some  other 
woman  for  a  while." 

"I'm  sure  every  word  is  so,"  he  returned;  "no  one 
could  have  a  better  wife;  you've  spoiled  me  out 
rageously;  I  feel  like  that  pig  Christopher  has  in  a 
pen  out  by  the  stable." 

"You  might  think  of  something  nicer  to  say,"  she 
protested.  "You're  not  easy  to  live  with,  either," 
Fanny  continued;  "you  hardly  ever  agree  with  what 
other  people  think;  and  you  curse  fearfully.  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  swear  like  that,  Lee.  I  object  to  it  very 
much  in  Claire;  I  can't  help  believing  that  she  thinks 
it  is  smart  or  funny.  And  you  encourage  her.  If 
Claire  had  been  different — no,  don't  interrupt  me — 
this  would  never  have  happened.  You  may  say  what 
you  like  about  her  good  breeding:  she's  been  too  flip 
pant.  I  felt  that  last  night.  Claire  doesn't  accept 
her  obligations  seriously  enough.  She's  kept  herself 
lovely  looking,  but  that  isn't  the  whole  thing." 

"What  is  the  whole  thing?"  he  demanded. 

"I've  told  you,  but  you  won't  listen — duty." 

"You  put  that  above  all  the  rest?" 

Fanny  hesitated.  "I  said  my  head  hurt  because 
I've  thought  so  much.  Love  and  duty,  yes;  I  see  them 

[115] 


CYTHEREA 

as  the  same.  Duty  without  love  would  be  hard,  and 
there  isn't  any  love  without  duty."  Fanny  evidently 
grew  aware  of  her  threatening  incoherence.  "It  isn't 
necessary  to  tell  you  in  so  many  words,"  she  said 
defensively;  "you  are  only  being  contrary." 

"You    have    explained    yourself    beautifully,"    he 
hastened  to  assure  her;  "I  am  the  person  who  is  at 


sea.': 


"Why,  Lee!"  she  exclaimed,  surprised;  "I  don't 
know  anyone  who  is  so  decided.  That's  what  makes 
me  raging,  you're  so  dogmatic.  There,  that  is  a 
splendid  word.  Don't  eat  that  apple,  it  isn't  baked; 
I  can  see  from  here."  She  rang.  "Varney,"  Fanny 
addressed  the  maid,  "take  Mr.  Randon's  apple  out 
and  see  if  there  isn't  another  better  done,  please. 
I  warned  you  about  that;  he  can't  eat  them  uncooked." 

"Let  me  keep  it,"  he  protested;  "it  might  have  an 
excellent  effect  on  my  disposition." 

"Don't  interfere,  Lee,"  she  responded  coldly:  "yes, 
Varney.  It's  really  idiotic  of  you,"  she  turned  to 
him;  "you  are  not  a  boy  any  more,  you're  not  even 
a  young  man,  and  you  can't  take  liberties  with  your 
digestion.  You  are  quite  like  Helena  with  her  prayers 
— if  she  feels  very  well  she's  apt  to  forget  them,  but 
if  she's  sick  she  says  them  as  hard  as  possible.  I 
wish  she  were  like  Gregory." 

"Gregory  and  you  are  cut  out  of  the  same  gold 
cloth,"  Lee  Randon  pronounced. 

"That  was  lovely  of  you,  Lee."  Fanny  radiated 
[116] 


CYTHEREA 

happiness.  *  "No  one  could  say  anything  prettier  to 
his  old  wife.'7  Dinner  was  over,  and,  rising,  she 
walked  around  the  table  and  laid  a  confident  arm  on 
his  shoulders.  The  knife-like  tenderness  which,  prin 
cipally,  he  had  for  her  overwhelmed  him;  and  he 
held  Fanny  against  him  in  a  silent  and  straining 
embrace.  For  that  reason  he  was  annoyed  at  himself 
when,  sitting  through  an  uneventful  evening,  his 
simile  of  the  pig,  enormously  fat,  sleepily  contented, 
in  its  pen,  returned  to  him.  It  wasn't  that  he  found 
an  actual  analogy  between  the  pig  and  life,  individ 
uals,  on  a  higher  plane,  so  much  as  that  he  was  vaguely 
disturbed  by  the  impression  that  there  was  an  ultimate 
similitude  between  him,  Lee  Randon,  and  a  fattened 
somnolence  of  existence. 

After  all,  were  his  individual  opinions  and  doubts 
expressed  in  a  manner  forceful  enough  to  diversify 
him  from  a  porcine  apathy?  The  pig,  secure  against 
the  inequalities  of  fate  and  weather,  wallowed  through 
life  with  a  dull  fullness  of  food  as  regular  as  the 
solar  course.  Christopher  was  his  wife.  Now  that,  Lee 
told  himself,  with  a  vision  of  the  gardener's  mous 
tache,  sadly  drooping  and  stained  with  tobacco,  his 
pale  doubtful  gaze,  Was  inexcusable.  He  abruptly 
directed  his  thoughts  to  Peyton  and  Claire  Morris ; 
how  exact  Claire  had  been  in  the  expression  of  her 
personality!  What,  he  grasped,  was  different  in  her 
from  other  women  was  precisely  that;  together  with  an 
astonishing  lack  of  sentimental  bias,  it  operated  with 

[117] 


CYTHEREA 

the  cutting  realism  of  a  surgeon's  blade:  She  had, 
as  well,  courage. 

That  was  the  result  of  her  heritage;  and  he 
wondered  if  all  strong  traits  were  the  action  of  superior 
blood  strayed  into  expected  and  unexpected  places? 
It  was  probable,  but  not  susceptible  of  proof.  The 
pig's  blood  was  that  of  the  best  registered  Berkshire. 
God  damn  the  pig! 

He  asked  Fanny  if  she  had  heard  any  further 
particulars  of  the  proposed  rearrangement  of  the  Mor 
rises'  lives;  when  they  were  to  separate;  but  she  knew 
no  more  than  he.  "I  hope  he  doesn't  come  here,"  she 
said  vigorously:  "I  should  refuse  to  speak  to  him  or 
have  him  at  my  table.  Outrageous!  I  can't  make 
out  why  you  take  it  so  coolly.  Mina  Raff's  a  rotten 
immoral  woman;  it  doesn't  matter  how  it's  arranged. 
Why,"  she  gasped,  "shtf  can  be  no  more  than  Peyton's 
mistress,  no  better  than  the  women  on  the  street." 

"That  is  so,"  he  agreed.  But  his  following  ques 
tion  of  the  accepted  badness  of  mistresses  and  street 
walkers  he  wisely  kept  to  himself.  Were  they  darker 
than  the  shadow  cast  by  the  inelastic  institution  of 
matrimony?  At  one  time  prostitutes  were  greatly 
honored;  but  that  had  passed,  he  was  convinced,  for 
ever;  and  this,  on  the  whole,  he  concluded,  was  for 
tunate;  for,  perhaps,  if  prostitution  were  thoroughly 
discredited,  marriage  might,  in  some  Elysian  future, 
be  swept  of  most  of  its  rubbish.  Houses  of  prostitu 
tion,  mistresses,  like  charity,  absorbed  and  dissipated 

[118] 


CYTHEREA 

a  great  deal  of  the  dissatisfaction  inseparable  from 
the  present  misconceptions  of  love  and  society.  The 
first  move,  obviously,  in  stopping  war  was  the  sup 
pression  of  such  ameliorating  forces  as  the  Red  Cross ; 
and,  conversely,  with  complete  unions,  infidelity  would 
languish  and  disappear. 

He  thought  of  this  further  in  the  darkened  theatre 
to  which,  driven  by  his  growing  curiosity,  he  had  gone 
to  see  Mina  Raff  in  the  leading  part  of  a  moving 
picture.  It  was  a  new  version,  in  a  new  medium, 
of  an  old  and  perennial  melodrama;  but,  too  late 
for  the  opening  scenes,  the  story  for  the  moment  was 
incomprehensible  to  him.  However,  it  had  to  do  with 
the  misadventures  of  a  simple  country  girl  in  what, 
obviously,  was  the  conventional  idea  of  a  most  so 
phisticated  and  urbane  society.  Lee  waited,  and  not 
vainly,  to  see  the  feminine  grub  transformed,  by  bril 
liant  clothes,  into  a  butterfly  easily  surpassing  all 
the  select  glittering  creatures  of  the  city;  and  he  told 
himself  that,  personally,  he  vastly  preferred  Mina 
Raff  in  her  plainest  dress. 

It  was  strange — seeing  her  there;  while,  in  fact, 
she  was  in  New  York  with  far  different  things  oc 
cupying  her  thoughts.  Here  she  was  no  more  than 
an  illusion,  a  pattern,  without  substance,  of  projected 
light  and  shade;  she  had  neither  voice  nor  warmth 
nor  color;  only  the  most  primitive  minds  could  be 
carried  away,  lost,  in  the  convention  of  her  flat  mobile 


CYTHEREA 

effigy!  Yet,  after  a  little,  he  found  that  he  as  well 
was  absorbed  in  the  atmosphere  of  emotional  verity 
she  created.  It  was  clear  to  him  now  that  not  the 
Mina  Raff  in  New  York,  but  this,  was  the  important 
reality.  In  herself  she  was  little  compared  to  what 
she  so  miraculously  did.  Then — the  final  step  in 
a  surrender,  however  much  he  hated  the  word,  to  art 
— he  forgot  Mina  Raff  completely.  He  lost  her  partly 
in  his  own  mental  processes  and  partly  in  the  unhappy 
girl  she  was  portraying: 

It  was  an  uncomplicated  story  of  betrayal,  of  a 
marriage  that  was  no  marriage,  and  the  birth,  in 
circumstances  of  wretched  loneliness,  of  an  illegitimate 
baby.  The  father  annoyed  Lee  excessively;  he  was 
the  anciently  familiar  inaccurate  shape  of  conven 
tionalized  lust  without  an  identifying  human  trait. 
Not  for  a  second  did  Lee  believe  in  his  grease-pencilled 
incontinence  and  perfidy;  but  the  child  he  seduced, 
incidents  of  the  seduction  charged  with  the  beauty  of 
pity,  thronged  Lee's  mind  with  sensations  and  ideas. 
However,  it  was  the  world  surrounding  the  central 
motive,  the  action,  that  most  engaged  him;  hardly  a 
trait  of  generosity  dignified  it;  and,  exaggeratedly  as 
a  universal  meanness  and  self-righteous  cruelty  was 
shown,  it  scarcely  departed,  he  felt,  from  the  truth. 

Why  was  it  that  virtue,  continence,  corroded  the 
heart?  Why  did  people  who,  through  predilection, 
went  to  dhurches,  regard  those  who  didn't  with  such 
an  insistent  animosity?  Why  did  the  church  itself 

[120] 


CYTHEREA 

seek  to  obliterate — as  though  they  were  a  breathing 
menace — all  who  stood  outside  its  doors?  There  was 
something  terribly  wrong  in  the  reaction  of  life  to 
religion,  or  in  the  religion  that  was  applied  to  life. 
It  began,  in  the  symbolical  person  of  Christ,  with,  at 
least,  a  measure  of  generosity;  but  that  had  been  long 
lost.  Now  the  bitterness  of  the  religious  rather 
resembled  envy. 

In  the  picture  flickering  on  the  screen  the  girl  who 
had  suffered  the  agonies  of  birth  sat,  with  her  baby 
on  her  young  lap,  in  the  forlorn  room  of  a  village 
boarding  house.  The  baby  was  sick,  a  doctor  had 
left  shortly  before,  and  one  minute  clenched  hand 
rested  on  the  mother's  bare  breast.  Lee  found  him 
self  gazing  fixedly  at  the  girl's  face:  trouble  slowly 
clouded  it,  the  trouble  was  invaded  by  fear,  a  ter 
rible  question.  He  realized  that  the  hand  was  grow 
ing  cold — the  baby  was  dead. 

Waves  of  suffering  passed  darkly  over  the  mother, 
incredulity  swiftly  followed  by  a  frozen  knowledge; 
she  tried  with  her  lips,  her  mouth,  to  breath  life  into 
the  flesh  already  meaningless,  lost  to  her.  Then  the 
tragedy  of  existence  drew  her  face  into  a  mask  univer 
sal  and  timeless,  a  staring  tearless  shocked  regard  as 
white  and  inhuman  as  plaster  of  Paris.  Emotion 
choked  at  Lee's  throat;  and,  in  a  sense  of  shame  at 
having  been  so  shaken,  he  admitted  that  Mina  Raff 
had  an  extraordinary  ability:  he  evaded  the  impres 
sive  reality  by  a  return  to  the  trivial  fact.  In  the 

[121] 


CYTHEREA 

gloom  there  was  only  a  scattering  of  applause,  a 
failure  of  approbation  caused  either  by  an  excess  of 
emotion  in  the  audience,  or — this  he  thought  more 
probable — a  general  uneasiness  before  a  great  moment 
of  life.  The  crowded  theatre  was  wholly  relieved, 
itself  again,  in  a  succeeding  passage  of  trivial 
clowning. 

Hatred  pursued  the  youthful  informally  maternal 
figure:  that,  eventually,  she  was  saved  by  the  love 
of  an  individual  was  small  before  the  opposed  mass 
— women  surrounded  her  with  vitriolic  whispers, 
women  turned  her  maliciously  from  house  to  house, 
a  woman  had  betrayed  her.  Finally  the  tide  of 
Christianity  rose,  burst,  in  a  biblical  father  who  drove 
her  into  a  night  of  snow  that  was  a  triumph  of  the 
actual  substituted  for  the  cut  paper  of  stage  conven 
tion.  That  she  would  be  rescued,  no  doubt  was 
permitted;  and  Lee  took  no  part  in  the  storm  of 
applause  which  greeted  this  act  of  satisfactory  heroics. 

The  other  spirit  had  appalled  him:  in  his  state  of 
mental  doubt — it  might  equally  have  been  a  condition 
of  obscure  hope — he  had  been  rudely  shoved  toward 
pessimism;  the  converse  of  the  announced  purpose  of 
the  picture.  The  audience,  for  one  thing,  was  so 
depressingly  wrong  in  the  placing  of  its  merriment: 
it  laughed  delightedly  at  a  gaunt  feminine  vin- 
dictiveness  hurrying  through  the  snow  on  an  errand 
of  destruction.  The  fact  that  the  girl's  maternity  was 

[122] 


CYTHEREA 

transcendent  in  a  generous  and  confident  heart,  made 
lovely  by  spiritual  passion,  escaped  everyone.  The 
phrase,  spiritual  passion,  had  occurred  to  him  without 
forethought  and  he  wondered  if  it  were  permissible, 
if  it  meant  anything?  It  did  decidedly  to  him;  he 
told  himself  further  that  it  was  the  fusion  of  the  body 
and  all  the  aspirations  called  spirit  in  one  supreme 
act  of  feeling. 

It  had  been  his  and  Fanny's  *  .  .  at  first.  Then 
the  spirit,  though  it  had  lingered  in  other  relationships, 
had  deserted  the  consummation  of  passion.  That 
hadn't  grown  perfunctory,  but  it  became  a  thing  more 
and  more  strictly  of  the  flesh;  with  this  it  was  less 
thrilling.  There,  he  believed,  they  were  not  singular; 
or,  anyhow,  he  wasn't;  he  saw  what  he  was  convinced 
was  the  same  failure  in  the  men  past  youth  about  him. 
But  in  Fanny  there  was,  he  recognized,  that  fierce 
if  narrow  singleness  of  impulse,  of  purity.  His 
thoughts  of  other  women  were  not  innocent  of  provoc 
ative  conjecture — Anette's  sinuous  body,  now  as  dead 
to  him  as  Alohabad,  recurred  to  his  mind — but  in 
this  Fanny  was  utterly  loyal.  Yes,  she  had,  a  thing 
impossible  for  any  man  he  had  known,  a  mental  single 
ness  of  desire. 

Was  it  that  which  had  in  her  an  affinity  with  the 
oppressors  of  the  picture,  which  made  her,  mechani 
cally,  the  vigorously  enlisted  enemy  of  the  actual 
Mina  Raff?  It  startled  him  a  little  to  realize  that 

[123] 


- 


CYTHEREA 

Fanny — for  all  her  marked  superiority — was  definitely 
arrayed  with  the  righteous  mob.  She  was  sorry  for 
those  who  failed  in  the  discharge  of  duty  to  God  and 
man,  and  she  worked  untiringly  to  reinstate  them — 
>in  her  good  opinion.  That  was  it,  and  it  was  no 
more!  All  such  attempted  salvation  resolved  itself 
into  the  mere  effort  to  drag  men  up  to  the  complacent 
plane  of  the  incidental  savior. 

This  recognition  took  a  great  deal  of  the  vigor  from 
his  intended  conversation  with  Peyton  Morris:  any 
thing  in  the  way  of  patronage,  he  reflected,  would  be 
as  useless  as  it  would  be  false.  But  he  had  no  impulse 
to  forego  his  purpose;  he  was  engaged  to  help  Claire 
who  was  too  proud  to  help  herself;  yes,  by  heaven, 
and  too  right  for  the  least  humiliation.  If  Claire 
suffered,  it  must  be  because  the  world  was  too  inferior 
for  hope  of  any  kind. 

Lee  was  not  unaware  of  the  incongruity  of  his 
position,  for  he  was  equally  ignoring  the  needs  of 
two  others,  Peyton  and  Mina  Raff.  It  was  evident 
to  him  now,  since  he  had  seen  her  in  a  picture,  that 
she  was  well  worth  the  greatest  consideration.  She 
lay  outside  the  stream  of  ordinary  responsibilities. 
What  held  him  steady  was  the  belief  that  she  and 
Peyton  were  not  so  important  to  each  other  as  they 
thought;  Claire  needed  him  more  badly  than  Mina. 
There  was  a  possibility — no,  it  was  probable — that 
Claire  deserted  would  develop  into  an  individual  as 
empty  and  as  vacantly  sounding  as  a  drum.  She 

[124] 


CYTHEREA 

had  said  as  much.  Her  heritage,  together  with  its 
splendors  of  courage  and  charm,  signally  carried  that 
menace. 

So  much,  joined  to  what  already  was  thronging  his 
thoughts,  brought  Lee's  mind  to  resemble  the  sheet  of 
an  enormous  ledger  covered  with  a  jumble  of  figures 
apparently  beyond  any  reduction  to  an  answer.  He 
was  considering  Claire  and  Mina  Raff,  Mina  and 
Claire,  at  a  hunt  breakfast  at  Willing  Spencer's  in 
Nantbrook  Valley,  north  of  Eastlake,  when,  with  a 
plate  of  food  in  one  hand  and  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the 
other,  he  collided  with  Peyton  Morris,  his  face  pinched 
and  his  eyes  dull  from  a  lack  of  rest.  The  Spencer 
house  was  sparely  furnished,  a  square  unimpressive 
dwelling  principally  adapted  to  the  early  summers 
of  its  energetic  children;  and  Peyton  and  Lee  Ran- 
don  allowed  themselves  to  be  crowded  into  the  bare 
angle  formed  by  a  high  inner  door. 

"Claire  told  you,"  the  younger  said. 

"Yes,"  Lee  replied  briefly.  It  wouldn't,  after  all, 
be  difficult  to  talk  to  Peyton ;  he  was  obviously  miser 
able  from  the  necessity  of  suppressing  what  absorbed 
his  entire  consciousness. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  think  there's  nothing  to  be 
said  for  me,"  his  voice  was  defiant;  "and  that  I  ought 
to  be  shot." 

"Very  much  to  the  contrary,"  Lee  asserted;  "there 
is  so  much  to  say  that  it's  difficult  to  know  where  to 

[125] 


CYTHEREA 

begin.  With  another  situation  practically  the  same, 
I  might  have  agreed  with  you  thoroughly;  but,  with 
Claire  and  what  I  have  gathered  of  you,  in  this  special 
one  I  can't." 

"It  isn't  absolutely  necessary,"  the  other  pointed 
out;  "Mina  and  I  will  have  a  lot  to  ignore." 

"The  first  thing  you'll  have  to  manage,"  Lee  ob 
served  sharply,  "is  to  grow  up.  You  are  not  in  a 
place  to  be  helped  by  leather-headed  satire  and  visions 
of  solitary  grandeur.  My  interest  comes  only  from 
Claire  and  some  personal  curiosity;  Mina  Raff  doesn't 
require  anyone's  assistance.  Of  you  all,  her  position 
is  clearest.  I  don't  know  if  you  can  be  brought  to 
see  it,  but  this  is  only  incidental,  a  momentary  in 
dulgence,  with  her." 

"What  you  don't  seem  to  get,"  Peyton  told  him, 
with  a  brutally  cold  face,  "is  that  I  may  smash  you; 
now,  where  you  are." 

"That  was  possible,"  Lee  agreed;  "and  you  are 
right — I  had  overlooked  it.  I  think  that's  passed, 
though;  I'm  going  to  keep  on  as  if  it  were.  Why, 
you  young  fool,  you  seem  to  have  no  conception,  none 
in  the  world,  of  what  you  propose  to  do.  In  a  week, 
in  your  frame  of  mind,  you'd  have  a  hundred  fights; 
there  would  be  time  for  nothing  else  but  knocking 
out  the  men  who  insulted  you.  You'll  collapse  over 
Sunday  if  you  are  not  absolutely  and  totally  imper 
vious  to  everything  and  everybody.  The  only  way 
you  can  throw  the  world  over  is  to  ignore  it ;  while  you 

[126] 


CYTHEREA 

appear  to  have  the  idea  that  it  should  put  a  rose  in 
your  buttonhole." 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  it's  going  to  be  stiff," 
Peyton  Morris  asserted  gloomily.  "I  can  take  care 
of  that.  Claire  and  Ira  are  the  hard  part.  Lee, 
if  anyone  a  year  ago  had  said  that  I  was  like  this, 
that  I  was  even  capable  of  it,  I'd  have  ruined  him. 
God,  what  a  thing  to  happen!  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  we,  Mina  and  I,  didn't  have  a  particle 
to  do  with  it — it  just  flatly  occurred.  I  had  seen 
her  only  three  times  when  it  was  too  late;  and  if  you 
think  I  didn't  try  to  break  it,  and  myself,  too — " 

Lee  nodded.  "Certainly.  Why  not,  since  it's 
bound  to  knock  you  on  the  head?  You've  been  very 
unfortunate:  I  can't  imagine  a  man  to  whom  this 
would  come  worse." 

"If  I  can  make  Mina  happy  I  don't  care  about 
myself." 

"Of  course,  that  is  understood,"  Lee  Randon  re 
turned  impatiently;  "  it  is  nothing  but  sentimental  rot, 
all  the  same.  If  you  are  not  contented,  easy  in  mind, 
how  can  she  be  happy?  You  have  got  to  believe 
entirely  in  what  you  are  doing,  it  must  be  right  to  you 
on  every  possible  side ;  and  you  can't  make  that  grade, 
Peyton;  you  are  too  conventional  underneath." 

"Sink  your  spurs  in  me,"  he  said  doggedly;  "it's 
funny  when  you  really  think  about  it.  Why,  only 
a  little  while  ago,  if  I  had  heard  of  a  man  doing  this, 
I  would  have  beaten  him  up  just  on  general  prin- 

[127] 


CYTHEREA 

ciples:  running  away  from  his  wife  and  child,  with 
another  woman,  an  actress,  that's  what  it  is!  I  tell 
myself  that,  but  the  words  haven't  a  trace  of  meaning 
or  importance.  Somehow,  they  don't  seem  to  apply 
to  me,  to  us;  they  can  say  what  they  like, but  Mina 
isn't  wicked.  She — she  loves  me,  Lee;  and,  suddenly, 
that  swept  everything  else  out  of  sight. 

"But  go  back  to  me — you  realize  that  I  was  rather 
in  favor  of  what  I  was,  what  I  had.  Brandenhouse 
is  a  good  school  and  my  crowd  ran  it.  We  were 
pretty  abrupt  with  boys  who  whored  about;  and,  at 
Princeton,  well,  we  thought  we  were  it.  We  were, 
still,  there;  and  I  got  a  heavy  idea  of  what  I  liked 
and  was  like.  We  were  very  damned  honorable  and 
the  icing  on  the  cake  generally.  That  was  good  after 
I  left  college,  too;  but  what's  the  use  of  going  into  it; 
I  was  in  the  same  old  Brandenhouse  surrounding. 
The  war  split  us  wide  open.  Or  I  thought  it  did ;  but, 
Lee,  by  God,  I  don't  believe  it  changed  a  thing.  I  got 
my  touch  of  concussion  early,  Ira  was  born,  and, 
and—" 

"Disaster,"  Lee  Randon  pronounced  shortly. 

"Call  it  that  if  you  choose;  there  isn't  much  use  in 
calling  it  at  all:  it  simply  is." 

"With  someone  else,  yes;  but  with  you,  no,  not 
finally;  you  haven't  the  character  and  disposition  to 
get  away  with  it.  You  don't,  secretly,  approve  of 
yourself,  Peyton;  and  that  will  be  fatal.  The  truth 
is  that,  while  you  want  this  now,  in  a  year,  or  two 

[128] 


CYTHEREA 

years,  or  five,  you'll  demand  the  other.  You  think  it 
is  going  to  be  different  from  everything  else  in  heaven 
and  earth,  you're  convinced  it's  going  to  stay  all  in 
the  sky;  but  it  will  be  on  the  solid  familiar  ground. 
Understand  again — it  isn't  your  plan  I'm  attacking; 
but  your  ability;  that  and  your  real  ignorance  of 
Mina  Raff. 

"If  you  imagine  for  an  instant  that  this  love  will 
be  bigger  than  her  work,  if  you  suppose  that,  against 
her  acting,  it  will  last,  you  are  an  idiot  for  your  pains. 
If  I  don't  know  the  side  of  her  you  do,  I  have  become 
fairly  familiar  with  one  you  haven't  dreamed  of.  She 
is  a  greater  actress  than  people  yet  recognize,  princi 
pally  because  of  the  general  doubt  about  moving 
pictures;  but  that  recognition  will  come,  and,  when  it 
does,  you  will  be  swept  out  of  sight. 

"No,  you  haven't  the  slightest  suspicion  of  what  it 
is  about;  that  side  of  her,  and  it's  very  nearly  the 
whole  woman,  is  a  blank.  She  admitted  to  me  that 
she  couldn't  understand  it  herself.  But  what  she  is 
doing  is  dragging  into  her  genius  what  it  needs.  She 
loves  you  now,  and  tomorrow  she'll  love  a  Belgian 
violinist,  a  great  engineer,  a  Spanish  prince  at  San 
Sebastian.  How  will  you  take  sitting  in  the  salon 
and  hearing  them  padding  around  over  your  head? 
It's  no  good  your  getting  mad  at  me ;  I  am  not  blaming 
Mina  Raff;  you  are.  I  admire  her  tremendously. 

"In  the  beginning  I  said  she  could  watch  out  for 
herself,  and  I  intimated  that  I  was  reasonably  indif- 

[129] 


CYTHEREA 

ferent  to  what  happened  to  you:  it  is  Claire  I  am 
concerned  about.  Unfortunately  for  her,  and  without 
much  reason,  she  loves  you  too.  When  Mina  is  done 
with  you  and  you  stray  back,  from,  perhaps,  South 
America,  Claire  won't  be  here.  I  don't  mean  that  she 
will  have  gone  away,  or  be  dead  in  the  familiar  sense. 
I  haven't  any  doubt  but  that  she  would  live  with  you 
again — she  is  not  small-minded  and  she's  far  more 
unconventional  than  you — what  there  was  of  her," 

"If  you  or  anyone  else  thinks  that  I  don't  admire 
Claire — "  he  stopped  desperately.  "We  won't  get 
far  talking,"  Peyton  added;  "even  if  all  you  have 
said  is  a  fact.  You  can't  hit  on  much  that  I've 
missed.  You  might  just  as  well  curse  me  and  let  me 

go." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  Lee  Randon  returned 
equably;  "that's  exactly  what  I  have  no  intention  of 
doing.  In  the  interest  of  Claire  I  must  try  to  open 
your  eyes."  The  younger  man  said  indignantly: 

"You  talk  as  though  I  were  a  day-old  kitten.  It's 
cursed  impertinent:  I  don't  seem  to  remember  asking 
for  so  much  advice." 

Throughout  their  conversation  they  were  both 
holding  the  plates  of  sausage  and  scrambled  eggs, 
from  which  rose  a  pungent  odor,  inevitable  to  the  oc 
casion.  And,  in  a  silence  which  fell  upon  them,  Lee 
realized  the  absurdity  of  their  position  behind  the 
door.  "We  can't  keep  this  up,"  he  declared,  and 

[130] 


CYTHEREA 

moved  into  the  eddying  throng,  the  intermingling 
ceaseless  conversations.  Almost  at  once  Peyton 
Morris  disappeared,  and  Lee  found  Fanny  at  his 
shoulder.  Neither  of  them  fox-hunted,  although  they 
hacked  a  great  deal  over  the  country  roads  and  fields, 
and  they  had  ridden  to  the  Spencers'  that  morning. 
Fanny  wore  dark  brown  and  a  flattened  hunting  derby 
which,  with  her  hair  in  a  short  braid  tied  by  a  stiff 
black  ribbon,  was  particularly  becoming.  She  was, 
he  told  himself,  with  her  face  positively  animated, 
sparkling,  from  talk,  unusually  attractive.  Fanny 
was  like  that — at  times  she  was  singularly  engaging. 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  demanded,  nodding  in  the 
direction  in  which  Peyton  had  disappeared.  "I  have 
avoided  him  all  morning." 

"An  uncommon  lot  for  Peyton,"  Lee  acknowledged, 
"I  almost  think  he  has  been  jarred  out  of  his  self- 
complacency.  But,  on  the  whole,  that  is  not  possible. 
It's  temporary  with  him.  At  one  time  I  thought — in 
the  language  of  youth — he  was  going  to  crown  me." 

"The  little  beast!"  she  exclaimed  viciously.  "If 
he  had  I'd  have  made  him  sorry.  I  saw  Claire  a  few 
minutes  ago,  and  she  asked  me  to  tell  you,  if  she 
missed  you,  that  she  had  something  for  you  to  see. 
Wasn't  it  strange  that  she  said  nothing  to  me  about  it? 
I  should  think,  in  her  scrape,  she'd  rather  turn  to  a 
woman  than  to  a  man.  But  Claire  isn't  very  fem 
inine:  I've  always  felt  her  hardness." 

"Then  that's  why  she  didn't  speak  to  you,"  Lee 
[131] 


CYTHEREA 

assented  superficially.  "I'll  go  over  tonight,  after 
dinner.  They  must  be  pretty  nearly  ready  to  drop  the 
fox,  and  it's  beginning  to  drizzle." 

There  was,  soon  after  that,  an  exodus  from  the  back 
of  the  house  to  the  fields  beyond.  It  was  a  very  fair 
hunting  country,  rolling  and  clear  of  brush,  with 
grouped  woods  on  the  surrounding  hills  and  streams 
in  the  swales  below.  The  clouds  were  broken  and 
aqueous,  and  the  grass  held  a  silver  veil  of  fine  rain 
drops.  Only  an  inconsiderable  part  of  those  present 
were  following  the  hounds;  the  others,  in  a  restricted 
variety  of  sporting  garb — the  men  in  knickerbockers 
and  gaiters  or  riding  breeches,  the  women  breeched 
and  severely  coated  or  swathed  in  wide  reddish  tweed 
capes — stood,  with  a  scattering  of  umbrellas  and  up 
turned  collars,  in  a  semi-circle  on  the  soggy  turf. 

There  was  a  baying  of  hounds  from  the  direction  of 
the  stables,  and  the  Master  swung  up  on  a  bright 
chestnut  horse  with  a  braided  tail.  A  huntsman 
appeared  with  a  shuttered  box,  holding  the  fox,  and 
an  old  brown  and  white  hound  bitch,  wise  with  many 
years  of  hunting,  to  follow  and  establish  and  an 
nounce  the  scent.  "If  you  are  ready,  Brace,"  the 
Master  said  to  his  huntsman,  "you  may  drop."  A 
stable  boy  held  the  hound,  and,  raising  the  shutter, 
Brace  shook  the  fox  out  on  the  ground. 

The  animal — in  view  of  the  commotion  about  to 
pursue  it — was  surprisingly  small,  slim  flanked;  pro 
portionately  the  tail  seemed  extravagant.  "I  hope  the 

[132] 


CYTHEREA 

brush  won't  get  wet,"  a  man  behind  Lee  spoke;  "when 
it  does  they  can't  run."  As  it  was,  the  fox,  obviously, 
was  reluctant  to  start;  it  crouched  in  the  rough  grass 
and  glanced  fleetly  around  with  incredibly  sharp 
black  eyes.  The  men  shouted  and  flung  up  their 
arms ;  but  the  animal  was  indifferent  to  their  laudable 
efforts.  The  hunt,  Lee  Randon  thought,  had  assumed 
an  aspect  of  the  ridiculous;  the  men  and  women  on 
expensive  excited  horses,  the  pack  yelping  from  be 
yond  a  road,  the  expectant  on-lookers,  were  mocked  by 
the  immobility  of  the  puzzled  subject  of  the  chase. 
Finally  the  fox  obligingly  moved  a  few  steps;  it 
hesitated  again,  and  then  trotted  forward,  slipping 
under  a  fence.  Lee  could  follow  it  clearly  across  the 
next  field  and  into  the  next;  its  progress  was  unhur 
ried,  deliberate,  insolent. 

"Give  him  six  minutes,"  the  Master  decided. 

When  the  time  had  gone  the  leash  of  the  single 
hound  was  slipped.  She  ran  around  in  a  circle, 
whining  eagerly,  her  nose  to  the  sod,  and  then  with  a 
high  yelp,  set  smartly  off  in  a  direction  absolutely 
opposite  to  that  taken  by  the  fox.  She  was  brought 
back  and  her  nose  held  to  the  hot  scent;  again,  with  a 
fresh  assurance,  the  bitch  gave  tongue,  followed  the 
trail  to  where  it  went  under  the  fence,  and  turned,  in 
stead  of  bearing  to  the  right,  to  the  left.  There  were 
various  exclamations.  A  kennel  man  declared,  "She 
knows  what  she's  about,  and  the  fox  will  swing  into 
Sibley's  Cover."  Someone  else  more  sceptically  as- 

[133] 


CYTHEREA 

serted  that  the  hound  was  a  fool.  Her  sustained  cry 
floated  back  from  under  the  hill;  and,  in  another 
minute,  the  pack,  the  hunt,  was  off.  The  horses  rose 
gracefully  in  a  sleek  brown  tide  over  the  first  fence; 
and  then  there  was  a  division — the  hounds  scattered 
and  bunched  and  scattered,  some  of  the  riders  went  to 
the  left  after  the  palpable  course  of  the  fox,  others 
pounded  direct  for  Sibley's  Cover,  and  the  remainder 
reined  up  over  the  hounds. 

Although  long  association  and  familiarity  had 
made  such  scenes  a  piece  with  Lee  Randon's  sub- 
consciousness,  today  the  hunt  seemed  nothing  more 
than  nonsense.  He  laughed,  and  made  a  remark  of 
disparaging  humor;  but  he  found  no  support.  Will 
ing  Spencer,  kept  out  of  the  field  by  a  broken  collar 
bone,  gazed  at  him  with  lifted  eyebrows.  Fanny  and 
Lee  turned  to  their  horses,  held  for  them  by  a  groom 
at  a  mounting  block,  and  went  home.  The  rain  had 
increased,  but,  not  cold,  Lee  found  it  pleasant  on  his 
face.  They  jogged  quietly  over  the  roads  bordered 
with  gaunt  sombre  hedges,  through  the  open  country 
side,  into  Eastlake. 

Nothing,  he  realized,  had  been  accomplished  with 
Peyton  Morris;  the  other  was  too  numbed,  shocked, 
by  the  incredible  accident  that  had  overtaken  him  to 
listen  to  reason.  Lee  felt  that  he  could  hardly  have 
said  more.  He  wondered  what  Claire  had  to  show 
him.  Still,  he  wasn't  through  with  her  husband;  he 
had  no  intention  of  resting  until  every  hope  was  ex- 

[134] 


CYTHEREA 

hausted.  What  particularly  impressed  him — he  must 
speak  of  it  to  Peyton — was  that  no  matter  where 
Morris  might  get  he  would  find  life  monotonously  the 
same.  It  was  very  much  like  mountain  climbing — 
every  peak  looked  different,  more  iridescent  and 
desirable,  from  the  one  occupied;  but,  gazing  back, 
that  just  left  appeared  as  engaging,  as  rare,  as  any  in 
the  distance.  Every  experience  in  the  life  surround 
ing  him  was  the  same  as  all  the  others ;  no  real  change 
was  offered,  because  the  same  dull  response  permeated 
all  living;  no  escape  such  as  Peyton  planned  was 
possible. 

Escape,  Lee  Randon  continued,  happened  within;  it 
was  not,  he  repeated,  a  place  on  earth,  or  any  posses 
sion,  but  a  freedom,  a  state,  of  mind.  Peyton  Morris, 
while  it  was  quite  possible  for  him  to  be  destroyed, 
was  incapable  of  mental  liberty,  readjustments;  he 
might  drive  himself  on  the  rocks,  on  the  first  reef 
where  he  disregarded  the  clamor  of  warning  bells  and 
carefully  charted  directions,  but  he  was  no  Columbus 
for  the  discovery  of  a  magical  island,  a  Cuba,  of 
spices  and  delectable  palms.  Peyton  had  looked  with 
a  stolid  indifference  at  the  dangerously  fascinating, 
the  incomprehensible,  smile  of  Cytherea.  Yes,  if  the 
young  donkey  could  be  forced  past  this  tempting  patch 
of  grazing,  if  he  could  only  be  driven  a  short  distance 
farther  down  the  highway  of  custom,  Claire  would  be 
safe. 

But  she  must  be  made  to  think  that  such  a  conclu- 
[135] 


CYTHEREA 

sion  had  been  purely  the  result  of  Peyton's  reserved 
strength,  and  not  of  a  mere  negative  surrender  follow 
ing  doubt.  And,  above  all,  there  must  be  no 
appearance  of  Mina  Raff  having,  after  a  short  trial, 
herself  discarded  him.  On  such  trivialities  Claire's 
ultimate  happiness  might  hang.  Truth  was  once 
more  wholly  restrained,  hidden,  dissimulated;  the 
skillful  shifting  of  painted  masks,  false-faces,  con 
tinued  uninterrupted  its  progress.  A  new  lethargy 
enveloped  Lee:  his  interest,  his  confidence,  in  what  he 
was  trying  to  prevent  waned.  What  did  it  matter 
who  went  and  who  stayed?  In  the  end  it  was  the 
same,  unprofitable  and  stale.  All,  probably,  that  his 
thought  had  accomplished  was  to  rob  his  ride  of  its 
glow,  make  flat  the  taste  of  the  whiskey  and  charged 
water  he  prepared.  However,  shortly  a  pervading 
warmth — but  it  was  of  the  spirits — brought  back  his 
lately  unfamiliar  sense  of  well-being. 

The  Morrises  lived  in  a  large  remodelled  brick 
house,  pleasantly  pseudo-classic,  beyond  the  opposite 
boundary  of  Eastlake;  and,  leaving  his  car  in  the  turn 
of  the  drive  past  the  main  door,  Lee  walked  into  the 
wide  hall  which  swept  from  front  to  back,  and  found 
a  small  dinner  party  at  the  stage  of  coffee  and 
cigarettes.  It  was  'composed,  he  saw  at  once,  of 
Peyton's  friends;  as  he  entered  three  young  men  rose 
punctiliously — Christian  Wager,  with  hair  growing 
close  like  a  mat  on  a  narrow  skull  and  a  long  irreg- 

[136] 


CYTHEREA 

ular  nose;  Gilbert  Bromhead,  a  round  figure  and  a 
face  with  the  contours  and  expression,  the  fresh  color, 
of  a  pleasant  and  apple-like  boy;  and  Peyton.  They 
had  been  at  their  university  together;  and,  Lee 
Randon  saw,  they  were  making,  with  a  characteristic 
masculine  innocence,  an  effort  to  secure  their  wives 
in  the  same  bond  of  affectionate  understanding  that 
held  them. 

Claire,  who  had  smiled  acknowledgingly  with  her 
eyes  when  Lee  approached,  returned  to  a  withdrawn 
concentration  upon  the  section  of  table-cloth  immedi 
ately  before  her;  she  answered  the  remarks  directed 
to  her  with  a  temporary  measure  of  animation  vanish 
ing  at  once  with  the  effort.  Christian  Wager,  who  was 
in  London  with  a  branch  of  an  American  banking  firm, 
had  married  an  English  girl  strikingly  named 
Evadore.  She  was  large,  with  black  hair  cut  in  a 
scanty  bang;  but  beyond  these  unastonishing  facts 
there  was  nothing  in  her  appearance  to  mark  or  re 
member.  However,  a  relative  of  hers,  he  had  been 
told,  distant  but  authentic,  had  been  a  lady-in-waiting 
to  the  Queen.  Gilbert  Bromhead's  wife  was  southern, 
a  small  appealing  compound  of  the  essence  of  the 
superlatively  feminine. 

Lee  Randon,  in  a  chair  drawn  up  for  him  at  the 
table,  studied  the  women,  arbitrarily  thrown  together, 
with  a  secret  entertainment.  Evadore  Wager  was 
frankly — to  a  degree  almost  Chinese — curious  about 
the  others.  At  short  regular  intervals,  in  a  tone  of 

[137] 


CYTHEREA 

.unvaried  timbre  and  inexhaustible  surprise,  she  half 
exclaimed,  "Fancy."  Claire  was  metallic,  turned  in, 
•with  an  indifference  to  her  position  that  was  actually 
rude,  upon  herself.  But  Mrs.  Gilbert  Bromhead 
snade  up  for  any  silence  around  her  in  a  seductive, 
low-pitched  continuous  talking.  A  part  of  this  was 
superficially  addressed  to  Claire  and  the  solidly 
amazed  Evadore;  but  all  its  underlying  intention,  its 
musical  cadences  and  breathless  suspensions  for  ap 
proval,  were  flung  at  the  men.  The  impression  she 
skillfully  conveyed  to  Lee  Randon,  by  an  art  which 
never  for  an  instant  lost  its  aspect  of  the  artless,  was 
that  he,  at  least,  older  in  experience  than  the  rest  there, 
alone  entirely  understood  and  engaged  her. 

The  men — even  Peyton,  temporarily — resting  con 
fident  on  a  successful  bringing  of  their  wives  into  the 
masculine  simplicity  of  their  common  memories  and 
affection,  said  little.  With  eyes  puckered  wisely 
against  the  cigarette  smoke  they  made  casual  remarks 
about  their  present  occupations  and  terse  references  to 
companions  and  deeds  of  the  past.  Only  Peyton  had 
been  of  any  athletic  importance;  he  had  played  uni 
versity  foot-ball;  and,  in  view  of  this,  there  was  still 
a  tinge  of  respect  in  Bromhead's  manner.  A  long 
run  of  Peyton's,  crowned  with  a  glorious  and  winning 
score,  was  recalled.  But  suddenly  it  failed  to  stir 
him.  "How  young  we  were  then,"  he  observed 
gloomily. 

Christian  Wager  protested.  "That  isn't  the  right 
[138] 


CYTHEREA 

tone.  We  were  young  then,  true,  but  Princeton  was 
teaching  us  what  it  meant  to  be  men.  In  that  game, 
Morris,  you  got  something  invaluable  to  you  now, 
hard  endurance  and  fairness — " 

"In  my  day,"  Lee  interposed,  "the  team  was  told  to 
sink  a  heel  in  any  back  that  looked  a  little  too  good 
for  us." 

"There  were  instructors  like  that,"  Gilbert  Brom- 
head  assented;  "and  some  graduate  coaches  are  pretty 
cunning;  but  they  are  being  discredited." 

Wager  largely,  obliviously,  passed  over  this  inter 
ruption.  "We  learned  decency,"  he  proceeded,  "in 
business  and  ideals  and  living;  and  to  give  and  take 
evenly.  In  the  war  and  in  civil  life  we  were  and  are 
behind  the  big  issues.  This  new  license  and  social 
istic  rant,  the  mental  and  moral  bounders,  must  be 
held  down,  and  we  are  the  men  to  do  it.  Yes,  and  I 
believe  in  the  church,  the  right  church,  we're  all  for 
that:  I  tell  you  the  country  depends  on  the  men  the 
best  colleges  turn  out." 

"My  God,  Christian,  you  must  have  made  a  lot  of 
money  lately,"  Bromhead  observed.  "You  talk  ex 
actly  like  the  president  of  a  locomotive  works.  You 
have  been  dining  with  the  best,  too;  I  can  tell  that 
with  certainty.  Answer  us  this,  honestly — do  you 
mention  the  Royal  Family  in  your  prayers?" 

Evadore  laughed.  "Do  you  know,  that's  really 
awfully  good.  He  does  put  it  on  a  bit,  doesn't  he?" 

"If  you  let  Christian  go  on,"  Peyton  added,  "he'll 
[139] 


CYTHEREA 

talk  about  the  sacred  ties  of  Anglo-Saxon  blood  and 
tradition,  with  the  English  and  American  exchange 
ruling  the  world.  Gilbert,  how  did  your  artillery 
company  get  along  with  the  Londoners  ?" 

"All  right,  if  we  were  near  a  brick  yard." 

Claire  rose  abruptly,  and  they  drifted  out  to  a 
reception  room  opening,  with  a  wide  arch,  beyond  the 
hall.  Gilbert  Bromhead's  wife  hesitated;  then,  con 
fidentially,  she  told  Lee  that  she  adored  to  sit  on 
stairs.  "Very  well,"  he  assented;  "these  of  the 
Morrises'  are  splendid."  He  was  a  step  below  her, 
and  her  knees  and  his  shoulder  settled  together. 

"I  like  older  men  so  much,"  she  admitted  what  she 
had  already  so  adroitly  conveyed;  "patches  of  grey 
above  the  ears  are  so  distinguished." 

"Older  than  what?" 

Apparently  forgetful  that  her  gesture  included 
Gilbert  Bromhead  she  indicated  the  rooms  that  now 
held  the  others.  "Young  men  are  so  head  over 
heels,"  she  particularized;  "they  are  always  dis 
arranging  things."  She  laughed,  a  delectable  sound. 
"I  oughtn't  to  have  said  that,  and  I  wouldn't — to 
them.  I  might  almost  tell  you  the  story  about  the 
man  in  the  department  store  and  the  drawers." 
Their  contact  was  more  pronounced.  "Isn't  that 
English  girl  extraordinary?  I  didn't  believe  for  a 
minute  that  was  her  own  color  till  I  was  close  to  it. 
Her  hair  isn't  dyed;  but  why  does  she  wear  that 
skimpy  bang?"  Again  she  laughed,  a  pure  golden 

[140] 


CYTHEREA 

melody.  "But  you  admired  it,  I  know  you  did;  men 
are  so  unaccountable.  Could  you  trust  her,  do  you 
think?  It  wasn't  very  nice  to  make  fun  of  her 
husband."  Adroitly,  without  the  flutter  of  a  ruffle, 
she  moved  to  a  higher  step,  and  Claire — before  Lee 
had  any  premonition  of  her  appearance — stood  below 
them  with  chocolates. 

"She  is  rather  attractive,"  his  companion  admitted, 
when  Claire  had  gone.  "She  doesn't  like  me,  or  Mrs. 
Wager,  though;  and  I  must  say  she  made  it  plain  in 
her  own  house.  I've  been  studying  her,  and  there  is 
something  wrong.  Is  she  happy  with  Peyton  Morris? 
I  thought  he  was  right  nice  until  you  came."  She 
turned  for  a  better  view,  through  the  balustrade,  of  the 
doors  beyond,  and  then  drew  her  skirt  close  so  that 
he  could  move  up  beside  her.  "It's  just  like  a  smoke 
house  in  there,"  she  reported.  "I  don't  truthfully 
think  cigarettes  are  nice  for  a  woman ;  and  I  wouldn't 
dream  of  taking  whiskey;  in  the  South  we  never. 
You'd  call  that  out  of  date."  She  bent  forward,  ar 
ranging  the  ribbon  of  a  slipper,  and  her  mouth  met 
his  in  a  long  kiss. 

"What  made  you  suppose  you  could  do  that?"  she 
demanded;  "how  did  you  know  I  wouldn't  be  cross 
with  you?  But  .  .  .  somehow  I  didn't  mind.  Al 
though  you  mustn't  again,  so  publicly.  I  wonder 
why,  with  you,  it  seemed  so  perfectly  nice,  and  not  at 
all  as  if  I  had  only  met  you?" 

There  was  a  response  to  that  as  recognized,  as  ex- 
[141] 


CYTHEREA 

act,  as  the  bishop's  move  in  chess;  indeed,  it  was 
expected  of  him;  she  was  hesitating,  waiting  for  it; 
but  he  was  unable  to  reassure  her  with  the  conven 
tional  sentiment.  A  month  ago  he  would  have 
commanded  and  developed  an  enticing  situation;  but 
now,  for  Lee  Randon,  it  was  without  possibilities, 
hardly  more  than  perfunctory.  A  shade  of  vexation 
invaded  her  bearing,  and  she  moved  a  significant 
infinitesimal  fraction  away  from  him.  Then  she 
discovered  a  wind  blowing  down  the  stairs.  "I  have 
to  take  such  good  care  of  myself,"  she  told  Lee,  pre 
paring  to  descend.  "It  is  because  I  am  so  delicate — 
I  can  get  upset  at  nothing.  Here  you  are  all  so 
strong;  you  have  an  advantage  over  me.  Gilbert, 
dear,"  she  called  from  the  hall,  her  voice  musical  with 
tender  reproach,  "I  can't  see  how  you  love  me,  you 
stay  away  so  far." 

"What  did  the  little  ass  say  to  you?"  Claire  asked. 
Lee  was  standing  with  her  by  the  piano,  and  the  others 
were  around  the  fireplace  in  the  farther  spaciousness. 
"Nothing  much,"  he  replied.  "You  mean  that  she 
never  stopped.  I'll  admit  she's  skillful;  but  she 
needn't  think  I'm  a  fool.  But  you  will  never  guess 
what  I  want  to  tell  you.  My  dear  Lee,  that  Mrs. 
Grove  wrote  me  a  letter.  I  have  it  here  in  my  dress, 
for  you  to  read.  It's  a  scream."  He  took  the  sheet 
of  note  paper:  it  was  grey  with  an  address  on  East 

[142] 


CYTHEREA 

Sixty-sixth  Street  embossed  in  pale  vermilion,  and  had 
an  indefinable  scent.  The  writing  was  decisive: 

"My  DEAR  MRS.  MORRIS, 

It  is  so  difficult  for  me  to  express  my  disturbance  at  what 
Mina  Raff  has  just  told  me,  that  I  am  asking  to  see  you  here, 
at  my  house  in  New  York.  Engagements  make  it  difficult  for 
me  to  leave  at  present.  I  hope  you  will  not  find  this  imperti 
nent  from  an  older  woman,  threatened  very  much  as  you  in 
her  affections  by  an  impossible  calamity — " 

The  signature,  Savina  Grove,  had  the  crispness  of  a 
name  often  attached  to  opinions  and  papers  of  au 
thority. 

"That's  rather  cool,"  he  agreed. 

"Cool!  The  woman's  demented.  No,  I  suppose 
she  thinks  I  am  an  honest  wronged  woman  or  some 
thing  objectionable  of  the  sort.  I  was  going  to  throw 
it  away  when  I  kept  it  to  amuse  you." 

"It  does,  Claire;  and  I'm  glad  to  see  it;  impertinent 
as  she  admits  it  may  be,  you  must  consider.  As  Mrs. 
Grove  writes,  you  are  both  caught." 

"If  you  think  I'll  go  see  her  you  are  madder  still." 

"I  realize  you  won't;  but  worse  things  could 
happen.  It's  the  only  possible  approach  to  Mina 
Raff;  I  had  a  chance  to  try  Peyton,  but  it  did  no 
good.  It  seems  to  me  this  Mina  ought  to  have  some 
understanding." 

Claire  Morris  said:  "You  can  do  it." 
[143] 


CYTHEREA 

He  reflected.  "Well,  perhaps;  I'm  your  uncle; 
there  are  no  brothers,  and  what  other  family  you  have 
is  away.  It  might  be  useful.  Anyhow,  she  would 
hear  a  thing  or  two  about  you  from  me." 

"Seriously,  Lee,  you'd  only  get  angry:  I  can  see 
Mrs.  Grove  as  though  she  were  in  the  room — the 
utmost  New  York  self-satisfaction.  And  I  won't 
have  you  discussing  my  affairs." 

"Absurd.  A  thousand  people  will  be  talking  about 
them  soon  if  this  isn't  managed.  I  have  an  idea  I 
had  better  go  to  New  York  and  try  what  can  be  done 
there.  I  got  along  well  enough  with  the  girl  herself; 
and  perhaps,  though  it's  not  likely,  Mrs.  Grove  has 
some  influence." 

"Of  course,  I  can't  stop  you,"  Claire  said;  her 
hand  strayed  over  his,  on  the  piano.  "I'm  simply 
enraged  at  myself,  Lee.  Why,  I  should  let  him  go 
with  cheers — except  where  I  was  sorry  for  him — but 
I  can't.  He  is  such  a  sweet  child;  and,  you  see,  he 
was  all  mine." 

"I  can't  leave  before  Thursday."  He  considered. 
"I'll  have  a  wire  sent  to  the  Groves,  say  something 
regretful  and  polite  about  you — measles." 

"Don't  bother,"  she  returned. 

Peyton  came  stiffly  up  to  them.  "I  happened  to 
mention,  Claire,  that  we  had  some  champagne  left, 
and  it  created  the  intensest  excitement.  I  told  them 
it  would  do  no  good,  that  you  were  keeping  hold  of 
it;  but  they  insisted  on  a  look  at  the  bottles." 

[144] 


CYTHEREA 

"Get  them,  Peyton,"  she  replied  unhesitatingly. 
"I  was  keeping  it,  but  perhaps  for  now.  This  is  a 
very  appropriate  time  for  you  and  me,  and  the  last 
of  the  cases  left  over  from  our  wedding." 

An  expression  of  pain  tightened  his  mouth;  he 
turned  away  without  further  speech.  "We'll  have  it 
in  the  dining-room,"  Claire  announced;  "big  glasses 
filled  with  ice."  They  gathered  about  the  bare  table, 
and  Peyton  Morris  ranged  the  dark  green  bottles, 
capped  in  white  foil,  on  the  sideboard.  He  worked 
with  a  napkin  at  a  cork:  there  was  a  restrained  sibi 
lant  escaping  pressure,  and  the  liquid  rose  in  frothing 
bubbles  through  the  ice. 

It  was,  Lee  thought,  a  golden  drink,  flooded,  up  to 
a  variable  point,  with  an  inimitable  gaiety.  In  com 
parison  whiskey  was  brutalizing;  sherry  was  involved 
with  a  number  of  material  accompanying  pleasures; 
port  was  purely  masculine  and  clarets  upset  him ;  beer 
was  a  beverage  and  not  a  delight;  ale  a  soporific;  and 
Rhine  wines  he  ignored.  Champagne  held  in  solution 
the  rhythm  of  old  Vienna  waltzes,  of  ball  rooms  with 
formal  greenery,  floating  with  passions  as  light  as  the 
tarleton  skirts  floating  about  dancing  feet.  But  it 
wasn't,  he  insisted,  a  wine  for  indiscriminate  youth — 
youth  that  couldn't  distinguish  between  the  sweet  and 
the  dry.  It  was  for  men  like  himself,  with  memories, 
unrealized  dreams.  Ugly  women,  and  women  who 
were  old,  and  certainly  prudes,  should  never  be  given 
a  sip. 

[145] 


CYTHEREA 

Peyton  Morris  again  filled  all  the  glasses;  there  was 
a  clatter  of  talk,  the  accent  of  the  South,  about  Lee; 
but  he  grew  oblivious  ol  it.  Champagne  always  gave 
Fanny  a  headache;  neither  was  it  a  drink  for  con 
tented  mothers,  housewives.  Contrarily,  it  was  the 
ideal,  the  only,  wine  for  seductions.  It  belonged  most 
especially  to  masked  balls,  divine  features  vanishing 
under  a  provocative  edge  of  black  satin.  He  thought 
of  little  hidden  tables  and  fantastic  dresses,  fragile 
emotion;  lips  and  knees  and  garters.  It  all  melted 
away  before  the  intentness  of  Claire's  expression. 
Peyton  was  doggedly  holding  to  the  rim  of  the  table; 
Gilbert  Bromhead  was  very  close  to  Evadore;  the 
black  sheath  of  her  hair  had  slipped  and  her  eyes  were 
blank;  the  blanched  delicate  hand  of  the  South  near 
est  Christian  Wager  had  disappeared,  Christian's 
hand  on  that  side  could  not  be  seen.  Peyton  once 
more  filled  the  glasses : 

"It  must  all  go,"  Claire  insisted;  "I  won't  have  a 
drop  left." 

Wager's  sentimentality  overflowed  in  approved  and 
well-established  channels :  Princeton  was  their  mother, 
their  sacred  alma — alma  mater.  Here,  under  Peyton's 
roof,  they  had  gathered  to  renew  .  .  .  friendships  un 
broken  with  their  wives,  their  true  wives;  oceans 
couldn't  separate  them,  nor  time,  nor — nor  silver  locks 
among  the  gold.  They  must  come  to  London  next 
December :  anniversary  of  mutual  happiness  and  suc- 

[146] 


CYTHEREA 

cess.  Take  the  children,  the  sons  of  old  Princeton,  to 
Christmas  pantomine. 

"Once,"  Evadore  told  them,  "I  went  to  a  night  club. 
Do  you  know  what  that  is,  over  here?  I  don't  believe 
I  can  explain  it;  but  there  are  quantities  of  cham 
pagne  and  men  and  principally  girls;  but  they're  not 
girls  at  all,  if  you  see  what  I  mean,  not  by  several 
accidents.  It  would  have  been  splendid,  but  I  got 
sick,  and  it  turned  into  a  ghastly  mess,  mostly  in  the 
cab.  That  was  rather  thick,  wasn't  it?" 

Claire  rose,  and  Lee  Randon  heard  her  say,  under 
her  breath,  "Oh  hell";  but  there  was  another  full 
bottle,  and  she  had  to  sit  again.  He  had  promised 
Fanny  not  to  stay  long,  and,  if  he  were  coming  home, 
she  never  went  to  sleep  until  he  was  in  the  house.  Lee 
wasn't  drunk,  but  then,  he  recognized,  neither  was  he 
sober.  Why  should  he  be  the  latter?  he  demanded 
seriously  of  himself.  His  glass  was  empty,  the  cham 
pagne  was  all  gone.  Mrs.  Gilbert  Bromhead  was  per 
ceptibly  leaning  on  Christian  Wager,  her  skill  blurred ; 
Evadore's  face  was  damply  pallid,  her  mouth  slack; 
she  left  the  table,  the  room,  hurried  and  unsteady, 
evidently  about  to  repeat  the  thickness  of  the  act  that 
had  marred  her  enjoyment  of  the  night  club;  Claire 
was  openly  contemptuous  of  them  all. 

Outside,  it  had  grown  much  colder,  the  ruts  in  the 
road  were  frozen,  treacherous,  but  Lee  Randon  drove 
his  car  with  a  feeling  of  inattentive  mastery.  He 

[147] 


CYTHEREA 

saw  some  stars,  an  arc  light,  black  patches  of  ice; 
and,  as  he  increased  his  speed,  he  sang  to  an  emphatic 
lifted  hand  of  a  being  in  the  South  Seas  who  wore 
leaves,  plenty  of  leaves.  .  .  .  But  none  of  the  silly 
songs  now  could  compare  with — with  the  bully  that, 
on  the  levees,  he  was  going  to  cut  down.  However, 
in  his  house,  he  grew  quiet.  uLee,"  his  wife  called 
sleepily  from  their  room,  "you  are  so  late,  dear.  I 
waited  the  longest  while  for  some  of  the  addresses 
for  our  Christmas  cards.  You  must  remember  to 
give  them  to  me  tomorrow." 

Her  voice,  heavy  with  sleep  and  contentment  and 
love,  fell  upon  his  hearing  like  the  sound  of  a  pure 
accusing  bell.  He  wasn't  fit  to  have  a  wife  like 
Fanny,  children  as  good  as  Helena  and  Gregory:  he, 
Lee  Randon,  was  a  damned  ingrate!  That  bloody 
doll — he  had  threatened  to  put  it  in  the  fire  before — 
could  now  go  where  it  belonged.  But  the  hearth  was 
empty,  cold.  Cytherea,  with  her  disdainful  gaze, 
evaded  his  wavering  reach. 


[148] 


Ill 


FANNY,  where  the  Groves  were  concerned,  was 
utterly  opposed  to  the  plan  which,  Lee  gath 
ered,  Claire  had  half  supported.     "It's  really 
too  foolish,"  his  wife  told  him;  "what  can  Mrs.  Grove 
and  you  have  to  say  to  each  other?     And  you  won't  get 
anywhere  with  Mina  Raff.     Indeed,  Lee,  I  think  it 
isn't  quite  dignified  of  you." 

"That  won't  bother  me,"  he  replied  indulgently. 
"I  was  wondering — you  haven't  been  away  for  so 
long — if  you'd  come  with  me.  This  other  affair 
wouldn't  take  half  a  day:  you  could  buy  clothes  and 
there  are  the  theatres." 

"I'd  love  to."  She  hesitated.  "When  did  you 
mean  to  go?"  But,  when  he  said  the  following  noon, 
she  discovered  that  that  didn't  allow  her  enough  time 
for  preparations.  "You  don't  realize  how  much  there 
is  to  do  here,  getting  the  servants  and  the  children 
satisfactorily  arranged.  You  might  telephone  me 
after  you're  there;  and,  if  you  didn't  come  back  at 
once,  perhaps  I  could  manage  it." 

Lee  telegraphed  Mrs.  William  Loyd  Grove  of  his 
intention;  and,  with  a  table  put  up  at  his  seat  in  the 
Pullman  car  for  New  York,  he  occupied  himself  op- 

[149] 


CYTHEREA 

portunely  with  the  reports  of  his  varied  profitable 
concerns.  He  had  had  a  reply,  sufficiently  cordial, 
to  his  telegram,  arranging  for  him  to  go  directly  to 
the  Groves'  house;  but  that  he  had  declined;  and 
when  he  gave  the  driver  of  a  taxi-cab  the  address  on 
East  Sixty-sixth  Street  it  was  past  four  and  the  ap 
propriate  hour  for  afternoon  tea. 

The  house,  non-committal  on  the  outside — except 
for  the  perceived  elaboration  of  the  window  draperies 
within — was,  Lee  saw  at  once,  a  rich  undisturbed 
accumulation  of  the  decorative  traditions  of  the  eigh- 
teen-eighties.  The  hall  was  dark,  with  a  ceiling  and 
elaborate  panels  of  black  walnut  and  a  high  dull 
silver  paper.  The  reception  room  into  which  he  was 
shown,  by  a  maid,  was  jungle-like  in  its  hangings 
and  deep-tufted  upholstery  of  maroon  and  royal  blue 
velvets,  its  lace  and  twisted  cords  with  heavy  tassels, 
and  hassocks  crowded  on  the  sombrely  brilliant  rugs 
sacred  in  mosques.  There  was  a  mantle  in  colored 
marbles,  cabinets  of  fretted  ebony,  tables  of  onyx 
and  floriated  ormolu,  ivories  and  ornaments  of  Ben 
ares  brass  and  olivewood. 

In  the  close  incongruity  of  this  preserved  Victorian- 
ism  Mrs.  William  Loyd  Grove,  when  she  appeared 
soon  after,  startled  Lee  Randon  by  her  complete  ex 
pression  of  a  severely  modern  air.  She  was  dressed 
for  the  street  in  a  very  light  brown  suit,  rigidly  simple, 
with  a  small  black  three-cornered  hat,  a  sable  skin 
about  her  neck,  and  highly  polished  English  brogues 

[150] 


I 

CYTHEREA 

with  gaiters.  Mrs.  Grove  was  thin — no,  he  cor 
rected  that  impression,  she  was  slight — her  face,  broad 
at  the  temples,  narrowed  gracefully  to  her  chin;  her 
eyes  were  a  darker  blue  than  the  velvet;  and  her  skin 
at  once  was  evenly  pale  and  had  a  suggestion  of 
transparent  warmth.  The  slender  firm  hand  she  ex 
tended,  her  bearing  and  the  glimpse  of  a  round  throat, 
had  lost  none  of  the  slender  flexibility  of  youth. 

"The  first  thing  I  must  do,"  she  told  him  in  an 
unsympathetic,  almost  harsh,  voice,  "is  to  say  that  I 
agree  with  you  entirely  about  this  house.  It's  beyond 
speech.  But  William  won't  have  it  touched.  Prob 
ably  you  are  not  familiar  with  the  stubborn  traditions 
of  old  New  Yorkers.  Of  course,  when  Mrs.  Simeon 
Grove  was  alive,  it  was  hopeless;  but  I  did  think, 
when  she  died,  that  something  could  be  done.  You 
can  see  how  wrong  I  was — William  can't  be  budged." 

She  was,  he  silently  continued  his  conclusions,  past 
forty,  but  by  not  more  than  a  year,  or  a  year  and 
a  half.  All  that  her  signature  suggested  was  true: 
she  was  more  forcible,  decisive,  than  he  had  expected. 
Money  and  place,  with  an  individual  authentic  strength 
of  personality,  gave  her  voice  its  accent  of  finality, 
her  words  their  abruptness,  her  manner  an  unending 
ease. 

"Mina  said  she  might  be  here,"  Mrs.  Grove  went 
on,  from  an  uncomfortable  Jacobean  chair,  "if  some 
thing  or  other  happened  at  the  studio.  But  I  see  she 
is  not,  and  I  am  relieved." 

[151] 


I 

CYTHEREA 

"Mrs.  Morris  regretted  she  couldn't  come,"  Lee 
told  her  inanely;  and  his  hostess  replied: 

"I  can't  at  all  say  that  I  believe  you — I  was  so 
upset  I  couldn't  resist  the  attempt.  But  I  hope  she 
understood  that  it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  me 
to  go  to  Eastlake." 

He  nodded,  a  shade  annoyed  by  the  briskness  of  her 
attack. 

"We  are  immensely  concerned  about  Mina,"  Mrs. 
Grove  went  on.  "You  see,  with  our  son  killed  in  the 
Lafayette  Escadrille  early  in  the  war,  practically  she 
has  been  our  only  child.  She  is  a  daughter  of  a  cousin 
of  William's.  Mina,  I  must  admit,  has  become  very 
difficult;  I  suppose  because  of  her  genius.  She  is 
perfectly  amenable  about  everything  in  the  world,  until 
her  mind  gets  set,  like  concrete,  and  then  she  is  out 
of  reach.  Tell  me  a  little  about  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Morris." 

Lee  Randon  spoke  sharply  for  a  minute  or  two, 
and  a  frown  gathered  on  his  hearer's  brow.  "Why," 
she  observed,  "it  is  worse  than  I  had  hoped.  But 
I  should  have  guessed  from  the  name — Peyton  Morris. 
I  am  very  sorry;  you  are  fond  of  her,  of  Claire,  that 
is  evident." 

"I  should  not  have  come  here  for  any  other  reason," 
he  admitted.  "I  am  not  much  of  a  meddler:  it  is  so 
dangerous  for  everyone  concerned.  Then  it  might  be 
that  this  was  the  best  for  all  three  of  them." 

"What  a  curious,  contradictory  thing  for  you  to 
[152] 


CYTHEREA 

say,"  she  commented,  studying  him.    "You  mustn't  let 
William  hear  that;  he's  far  worse  than  I  am." 

"I  don't  mean  we  can  proceed  from  that  attitude," 
Lee  explained,  "it  was  a  sort  of  digression.  I  want 
to  do  whatever  is  possible  to  break  it  up;  yes,  purely 
for  Claire." 

"I  hope  we  may  succeed."  Her  voice  showed  doubt. 
"William  isn't  always  tactful,  and  I've  told  him  again 
and  again  he's  taking  the  wrong  tone  with  Mina. 
What  a  pity  the  Morrises  have  turned  out  thoroughly 
nice — don't  tell  me  your  Claire  didn't  curse  me,  I 
know  these  girls — it  is  so  much  easier  to  deal  with 
vulgar  people.  I  can  see  now  what  it  was  in  the 
young  man  that  captured  Mina,  she'd  like  that  type 
— the  masculine  with  an  air  of  fine  linen."  The  tea- 
table  was  rolled  up  to  them.  "If  you  would  rather 
have  Scotch  or  rye  it's  here,"  she  informed  him.  "But 
even  the  tea,  you'll  notice,  is  in  a  glass  with  rum;  pos 
itively,  soon  no  one  will  look  at  soup  unless  it's  served 
as  a  highball." 

Lee  Randon  did  prefer  Scotch :  none  better,  he  dis 
covered,  was  to  be  imagined;  the  ice  was  frozen  into 
precisely  the  right  size;  and  the  cigars  before  him, 
a  special  Corona,  the  Shepheard's  Hotel  cigarettes, 
carried  the  luxury  of  comfort  to  its  last  perfection. 
Mrs.  Grove  smoked  in  an  abstracted  long-accustomed 
manner.  "Well,"  she  demanded,  "what  is  there  we 
can  do?" 

"I  rather  trusted  you  to  find  that." 
[153] 


CYTHEREA 

"How  can  I?  What  hold  have  we  on  her?  Mina 
is  getting  this  nonsensical  weekly  sum;  her  contract 
runs  for  two  years  yet;  and  then  it  will  be  worse. 
Outrageous !  I  tell  her  she  isn't  worth  it.  And,  now, 
this  tiresome  Morris  has  money,  too ;  and  you  say  he's 
as  bad  as  Mina.  Have  you  talked  to  her  about  Mrs. 
Morris?  Mina  is  strangely  sensitive,  and,  if  you  can 
find  it,  has  a  very  tender  heart." 

"I  might  do  that  over  here,"  he  suggested.  "In 
Eastlake  it  wasn't  possible.  You've  discouraged  me, 
though;  I  suppose  I  had  the  idea  that  you  could  lock 
her  up  on  bread  and  water." 

She  laughed.  "An  army  of  Minnesota  kitchen 
maids  would  break  into  the  house;  millions  of  people 
have  voted  Mina  their  favorite;  when  she  is  out  with 
me  the  most  odious  crowds  positively  stop  my  car. 
I  won't  go  with  her  any  more  where  she  can  be  recog 
nized."  Lee  rose,  and  his  expression  showed  his 
increasing  sense  of  the  uselessness  of  their  efforts. 

"You  mustn't  give  up,"  she  said  quickly;  "you 
never  can  tell  about  Mina.  You  will  come  here  for 
dinner,  certainly;  I'll  send  the  car  to  your  hotel  at 
seven-thirty,  and  you  will  bring  your  bag.  We  can't 
argue  over  that,  can  we?  William  will  enjoy  having 
you  very  much.  Do  you  mind  my  saying  he'll  be 
relieved?  He  is  such  a  Knickerbocker.  I  needn't 
add,  Mr.  Randon,  that  you  shall  be  entirely  free: 
whenever  you  want  to  go  down  town  Adamson  will 
take  you."  The  exact  moulding  of  her  body  was 

[154] 


CYTHEREA 

insolent.  "Well,  then,  for  the  moment — "  She  gave 
him  no  chance  at  refusal,  but,  with  the  curtness  of 
her  hand,  the  apparent  vanishing  of  all  knowledge  of 
his  presence,  dismissed  him  before  he  was  aware  of 
it  to  the  adroitness  of  the  maid  in  the  hall  putting 
him  into  his  overcoat. 

In  a  double  room  at  his  hotel,  repacking  the  articles 
of  toilet  he  had  spread  around  the  bathroom,  Lee 
thought,  but  without  heat,  damn  that  Grove  woman. 
He  didn't  want  to  go  to  the  Grove  house,  it  would 
complicate  things  with  Fanny;  and,  if  William  did 
enjoy  him,  Lee  Randon,  would  he  enjoy  William? 
It  was  questionable  in  the  present  state  of  his  mind. 
Dinner,  a  servant  at  the  Groves'  informed  him,  would 
be  at  eight.  His  bag  was  swiftly  and  skillfully  un 
packed  for  him — this  always  annoyed  Lee — and  the 
water  was  turned  into  the  tub.  His  room,  richly 
draped  and  oppressive  as  the  one  downstairs,  had 
a  bed  with  a  high  carved  oak  headboard  from  which 
a  heavy  canopy,  again  of  velvet  and  again  crimson, 
reached  to  the  floor  at  its  foot;  and  by  the  side  of  the 
bed  ran  a  long  cushion  over  which  he  repeatedly 
stumbled. 

His  immediate  necessity  was  to  telephone  Fanny; 
she  was  delighted  at  the  sound  of  his  voice;  but,  when 
he  told  her  what  had  happened,  where  he  was,  an 
increasing  irritation  crept  into  her  voice.  "I  can't 
understand  it  at  all,"  he  heard  her  say,  so  clearly  that 

[155] 


CYTHEREA 

it  reconstructed  her,  expression  and  probable  dress  and 
setting,  completely.  "You  asked  me  to  come  over  and 
shop,  and  go  to  the  theatre  with  you;  and  now  that 
I  have  everything  arranged,  even  Christopher  pacified, 
you  go  to  the  Groves'.  It  seems  to  me  most  peculiar." 

He  couldn't  help  it,  he  replied,  with  a  slight  respon 
sive  sharpening  of  his  own  speech;  he  had  driven  to 
the  hotel,  where  he  had  secured  their  room,  and 
Mrs.  Grove  had  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  stay 
there.  When  he  left — it  would  be  late  tomorrow  or 
early  the  next  day,  Lee  thought — she  could  meet  him 
and  do  as  they  planned.  But  Fanny  refused  to  agree: 
it  would,  now,  be  a  needless  expense.  No,  the  other 
was  what  she  had  eagerly  looked  forward  to.  Lee, 
drawing  her  attention  once  more  to  the  fact  that  it 
wasn't  possible,  was  answered  by  so  long  a  silence 
that  he  concluded  she  had  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"Have  a  good  time,"  Fanny  said  at  last;  "you  will, 
anyhow,  \vith  the  Raff  woman.  I  suppose  Mrs. 
Grove,  who  seems  to  get  everything  she  wants,  is 
fascinating  as  well." 

"Indeed,  I  don't  know,  Fanny!"  he  exclaimed,  his 
patience  almost  exhausted.  "It  hasn't  occurred  to  me 
to  think  about  her.  I'm  sorry  you  won't  do  what 
I  suggest;  it's  not  different  from  what  we  first  thought 
of." 

"Good-bye,"  she  answered  reluctantly;  "the  chil 
dren  are  here  and  send  their  love.  They'd  like  to 
speak  to  you,  but  probably  you're  in  a  hurry." 

[156] 


CYTHEREA 

"I  may  be  late  for  dinner  now,"  he  admitted. 

The  receiver  in  his  house  was  abruptly,  unmistak 
ably,  replaced.  No  one  else,  and  for  so  little  per 
ceptible  cause,  could  make  him  as  mad  as  Fanny 
frequently  did.  He  put  on  hrs  waistcoat,  changed  his 
money  from  the  trousers  on  the  bed  to  those  he  was 
wearing,  in  a  formless  indignation.  This  wasn't  his 
fault,  he  repeated;  positively,  judged  by  her  manner, 
he  might  be  doing  something  wrong.  Fanny  even 
managed  to  convey  a  doubt  of  Mrs.  Grove,  Mrs. 
William  Loyd  Grove.  But  she  couldn't  see  how 
ridiculous  that  was. 

William  Grove  Lee  liked  negatively;  there  was, 
patently,  nothing  in  him  to  create  an  active  response. 
His  short  heavy  body  was  faultlessly  clothed;  his 
heavy  face,  with  its  moustache  twisted  into  points, 
the  clouded  purple  of  his  cheeks  contradicted  by  the 
penetration  of  a  steadily  focussed  gaze,  expressed 
nothing  more  than  a  niceness  of  balance  between  self- 
indulgence,  tempered  by  exercise,  games  in  open  air, 
and  a  far  from  negligible  administration  of  the  re 
sources  he  had  inherited. 

"You  are  a  relative  of  the  Morrises?"  he  asked  Lee, 
turning  from  the  menu  set  before  him  in  a  miniature 
silver  frame.  This  Lee  Randon  admitted,  and 
Grove's  eyebrows  mounted.  "Can't  anything  be  done 
with  the  young  man?" 

"How  are  you  succeeding  with  the  young  woman?" 
Lee  returned. 

[157] 


CYTHEREA 

"Oh,  women — "  William  Grove  waved  his  hand; 
"you  can't  argue  with  women.  Mina  wants  her  Pey 
ton — if  that's  his  name;  God  knows  I've  heard  it 
eniough — and  there's  no  more  to  that." 

"It  begins  to  look  as  though  she'd  get  him,"  Lee 
observed;  "I  must  say  we  haven't  got  far  with  Morris." 

"Extraordinary." 

It  was  Mrs.  Grove  who  spoke.  She  was  dressed 
in  grey,  a  gown  cut  away  from  sheer  points  on  her 
shoulders,  with  a  girdle  of  small  gilt  roses,  her  hair 
in  a  binding  of  grey  brocade  and  amber  ornaments; 
and  above  her  elbows  were  bands  of  dull  intricately 
pierced  gold. 

"I  wonder  what  it's  all  about?" 

Lee  gazed  at  her  with  a  new  interest.  "So  do  I," 
he  acknowledged;  "I  was  thinking  of  that,  really, 
before  this  happened:  what  is  it  all  about?" 

"I  can  answer  that  readily  enough,"  Grove  assured 
them;  "anyone  could  with  a  little  consideration. 
They  saw  too  much  of  each*  other ;  they  ran  their  heads 
into  the  noose.  Trouble  always  follows.  I  don't 
care  who  they  are,  but  if  you  throw  two  fairly  young 
people  of  opposite  sex  together  in  circumstances  any 
way  out  of  the  ordinary,  you  have  a  situation  to  meet. 
Mina  has  been  spoiled  by  so  much  publicity;  her 
emotions  are  constantly  over-strung;  and  she  thinks, 
if  she  wants  it,  that  she  can  have  the  moon." 

"You  believe  that,  I  know, William,"  his  wife  com 
mented;  "I  have  often  heard  you  say  so.  But  what 

[158] 


CYTHEREA 

is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Randon — have  you  reached  one 
and  is  a  conclusion  possible?" 

"I  can't  answer  any  of  your  questions,"  he  ad 
mitted;  "perhaps  this  is  one  of  the  things  that  must  be 
experienced  to  be  understood;  certainly  it  hasn't  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  the  mind."  He  turned  to  Wil 
liam  Grove,  "Your  view  has  a  lot  to  recommend  it, 
even  if  it  solves  nothing.  Suppose  you  are  right — 
what  then?" 

"I  don't  pretend  to  go  that  far,"  Grove  protested; 
"I  am  not  answering  the  questions  of  the  universe. 
Savina  has  an  idea  there's  a  mystery  in  it,  a  quality 
hidden  from  reason;  and  I  want  to  knock  that  on  the 
head.  It's  a  law  of  nature,  that's  all ;  keep  away  from 
it  if  you  want  security.  I  can't  imagine  people  of 
breeding — you  will  have  to  overlook  this,  Mr.  Randon, 
on  the  account  of  Morris — getting  so  far  down  the 
slide.  It  belongs  to  another  class  entirely,  one  with 
out  traditions  or  practical  wisdom.  Yet,  I  suppose 
it  is  the  general  tone  of  the  day:  they  think  they  can 
handle  fire  with  impunity,  like  children  with  parlor 
matches." 

"It  can't,  altogether,  be  accounted  for  so  easily," 
Lee  decided.  "The  whole  affair  has  been  so  lied 
about,  and  juggled  to  suit  different  climates  and 
people,  that  hardly  any  of  the  original  impulse  is 
left  on  view.  What  do  you  think  would  happen  if 
for  a  while  we'd  lose  our  ideas  of  what  was  right  and 
wrong  in  love?" 

[159] 


CYTHEREA 

"Pandemonium,"  Grove  replied  promptly. 

"Not  if  people  were  more  responsible,  William," 
Savina  Grove  added;  "not  for  the  superior.  But  then, 
all  laws  and  order  were  made  for  the  good  of  the  mob. 
I  don't  need  the  policeman  I  see  in  the  streets;  and, 
really,  I  haven't  a  scrap  more  use  for  policeman- 
like  regulations;  I  could  regulate  myself — " 

"And  there,"  he  interrupted,  "is  where  Mina  fails; 
she  can't  run  herself  for  a  damn;  she  ought  to  have 
a  nurse.  Your  theories  contradict  each  other,  as  well 
— you  say  one  thing  and  do  quite  differently." 

She  was  silent  at  this,  gazing  at  her  hands,  the 
beautifully  made  pointed  fingers  bare  of  rings.  On 
their  backs  the  veins,  blue-violet,  were  visible;  and 
there  was  a  delicate  tracery  inside  the  bend  of  her 
arms.  But  her  face,  Lee  reflected,  was  too  passive, 
too  inanimate;  her  lack  of  color  was  unvaried  by  any 
visible  trace  of  emotion,  life.  She  was,  in  fact, 
plain  if  not  actually  ugly;  her  mouth  was  too  large; 
on  the  street,  without  the  saving  distinction  of  her 
dress,  he  wouldn't  have  noticed  her. 

But  what,  above  the  rest,  engaged  him  was  her 
resemblance  to  someone  he  knew  but  couldn't  recall. 
What  woman,  seen  lately,  had  Mrs.  Grove's  still, 
intent  face,  her  pointed  chin  and  long  throat?  She 
lifted  her  hand,  and  the  gesture,  the  suspended  grace 
of  the  wrist,  was  familiar  to  him.  Finally  Lee  Ran- 
don,  unable  to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  exasperated  at  the 
ysual  vain  stupidity  of  such  comparisons,  gave  up  the 

[160] 


CYTHEREA 

effort.  William  Grove  informed  Lee  that  he  might 
accompany  him  to  his  club,  stay,  or  go  as  he  willed. 
Mrs.  Grove,  it  developed,  would  be  at  home,  where, 
if  he  chose,  they  might  pursue  the  cause  of  Lee  Ran- 
don's  presence  there. 

There  was,  Lee  soon  grasped,  very  little  that  was 
useful  to  be  said.  They  repeated  what  had  been  gone 
over  before.  Mrs.  Grove  explained  again  Mina 
Raff's  unpredictable  qualities,  and  he  spoke  of  Pey 
ton  and  Claire  Morris.  Beyond  the  admission  of 
their  surrender,  Peyton's  and  hers,  to  each  other,  Mina 
had  told  the  Groves  nothing;  Savina  Grove  was 
ignorant  of  what  they  intended.  That  it  would  begin 
at  once  was  evident.  " William  is  always  a  little  an 
noyed  by  my  contradictory  character,"  she  observed, 
gazing  down  at  her  slippers.  They  were  grey,  slight 
like  a  glove,  on  slight  arched  feet  that  held  his  at 
tention.  The  conversation  about  the  situation  before 
them,  expanded  to  its  farthest  limits,  inevitably 
dragged;  they  said  the  same  things,  in  hardly  varied 
words,  a  third  and  even  a  fourth  time;  and  then 
Lee's  interest  in  it  wholly  deserted  him — he  could 
excite  himself  about  Mina  no  longer. 

This  left  him  confronted  with  himself  and  Mrs. 
Grove.  A  clock  on  the  stairway  struck  ten.  Her 
face  hadn't  a  vestige  of  cordiality,  and  he  wondered 
if  she  were  fatigued,  merely  polite  in  remaining  in 
the  room  with  him?  She  needn't  inconvenience  her- 

[161] 


CYTHEREA 

self  on  his  account!  It  was  pleasant  enough  at  the 
Groves';  without  doubt — in  her  own  world — she  was 
a  woman  of  consequence,  but  he  wasn't  carried  away 
by  the  privilege  of  studying  her  indifferent  silences. 
Then  she  completely  surprised  him: 

"I  suppose  you  have  been  to  all  the  cafes  and 
revues  you  ever  want  to  see;  but  I  almost  never  get 
to  them;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that,  if  you  didn't  too 
much  mind,  we  might  go.  What  do  you  think — is 
it  utterly  foolish?" 

On  the  contrary,  he  assured  her,  it  would  amuse 
him  immensely.  Lee  Randon  said  this  so  convinc 
ingly  that  she  rose  at  once.  To  be  with  Mrs.  William 
Loyd  Grove  at  Malmaison — that,  of  all  the  places 
possible,  presented  itself  at  once — would  furnish  him 
with  an  uncommon  evening.  Consequently,  driving 
smoothly  over  Fifth  Avenue,  a  strange  black  river  of 
solidified  asphalt  strung  with  fixed  moons,  in  answer 
to  her  query,  he  proposed  Malmaison,  and  the 
directions  were  transmitted  into  the  ivory  mouth-piece 
beside  her.  At  the  moment  when  the  day  was  most 
threatened  it  had  shown  a  new  and  most  promising 
development.  Over  the  grey  dress  Mrs.  Grove  wore 
a  cloak  with  a  subdued  gold  shimmer,  her  hat  was 
hardly  more  than  the  spread  wing  of  a  bird  across 
the  pallor  of  her  face,  and  the  deep  folds  of  the  gloves 
on  her  wrists  emphasized  the  slender  charm  of  her 
arms.  No  young — younger  woman,  he  decided, 
could  compete  with  her  in  the  worldly,  the  sophis- 

[162] 


CYTHEREA 

ticated,  attractiveness  she  commanded:  on  the  plane 
of  absolute  civilization  she  was  supreme.  In  the  semi- 
gloom  of  the  closed  car,  sunken  in  her  voluminous 
wrap  of  dull  gold,  with  a  high-bridged  nose  visible, 
a  hand  in  its  dead-white  covering  pressed  into  the 
cushion,  she  satisfied  his  every  aesthetic  requirement. 
Women,  he  reflected,  should  be  primarily  a  show  on 
a  stage  carefully  set  for  the  purpose  of  their  loveliness. 
Not  many  men,  and  scarcely  more  women — so  few 
were  lovely — would  agree  with  him  there.  Argument 
would  confront  him  with  the  moral  and  natural  beauty 
of  maternity;  very  well,  in  such  instincts,  he  thought 
with  a  resignation  quite  cheerful,  he  was  lacking. 
Birth,  self-oblivion,  was  no  longer  the  end  of  his 
dream-like  existence.  Lee  Randon  wanted  to  find  the 
justification,  preserve  the  integrity,  of  his  personality, 
and  not  lose  it.  Yes,  if  nature,  as  it  seemed  fully 
reasonable,  had  intended  the  other,  something  in 
calculable  had  upset  its  plans;  for  what  now  stirred 
Lee  had  nothing  to  do  with  breeding.  Long-con 
tinued  thought,  instead  of  making  his  questioning 
clearer,  endlessly  complicated  it.  There  was  always 
a  possibility,  which  he  was  willing  to  consider,  that 
he  was  lacking  in  sheer  normality;  and  that,  there 
fore,  his  doubts,  no  more  than  neurasthenic,  were 
without  any  value. 

He  was  ready  to  face  this,  but  unable,  finally,  to 
accept  it,  to  dismiss  himself  so  cheaply.  Whatever  it 
was,  troubling  his  imagination,  was  too  perceptible 

[163] 


CYTHEREA 

at  the  hearts  of  other  men.  It  wasn't  new,  singular, 
in  him;  nor  had  he  borrowed  it  from  any  book  or 
philosophy:  it  had  so  happened  that  he  had  never 
read  a  paragraph,  satisfactory  to  him  in  the  slightest, 
about  the  emotional  sum  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 
What  he  read  he  couldn't  believe;  it  was  a  paste  of 
moralistic  lies ;  either  that  or  the  writer  had  no  greater 
power  of  explication  than  he.  But,  while  he  might 
deny  a  fundamental  irregularity,  the  majority  of  men, 
secretly  delivered  to  one  thing,  would  preach  virtu 
ously  at  him  the  other.  He  recalled  how  universal 
were  the  traces  of  dissatisfaction  he  had  noticed;  an 
uneasiness  of  the  masculine  world  that  resembled 
a  harborful  of  ships  which,  lying  long  and  placidly 
at  anchor,  began  in  a  rising  wind  to  stir  and  pull  at 
their  hawser  chains. 

Lee  didn't  mean  that  this  restlessness  was  confined 
to  men;  simply  he  was  intent  on  his  own  problem. 
The  automobile  turned  into  a  cross-town  street;  they 
met,  entered,  a  mass  of  cars  held  at  Broadway,  ad 
vanced  a  few  feet,  stopped,  went  on,  and,  twisting 
through  the  traffic,  reached  Malmaison.  He  left  his 
outer  things  at  the  door,  but  Mrs.  Grove  kept  her 
cloak,  and  they  mounted  in  an  elevator  to  the  cafe 
floor.  The  place  was  crowded  with  brightly  filled 
tables  surrounding  the  rectangular  open  dancing 
space,  and  Lee  signalled  for  a  captain.  That  ex 
perienced  individual,  with  a  covert  glance  at  Lee 
Randon's  companion,  a  hand  folded  about  a  sum  of 

[164] 


CYTHEREA 

money  that  would  have  paid  the  butcher  for  a  week 
at  Eastlake,  found,  however,  exactly  what  they  wanted; 
and  Mrs.  Grove's  dominating  slimness  emerged  by 
degrees,  like  a  rare  flower  from  leaves  of  quiet  gold. 

They  sat  facing  each  other.  At  a  table  on  Lee's 
left,  on  a  floor  a  foot  higher,  sat  a  woman,  Spanish 
in  color,  with  a  face  like  a  crumpled  petunia.  The 
girls  of  a  larger  party,  beyond  Savina  Grove,  were 
young,  with  the  vigorous  nakedness  of  their  shoulders 
and  backs  traced  by  black  cobwebs  of  lace.  The 
music  began,  and  they  left  to  dance;  the  deserted  tables 
bore  their  drinks  undisturbed  while  the  floor  was 
choked  by  slowly  revolving  figures  distilling  from  the 
rhythm  frank  gratification.  There  was  an  honesty  of 
intention,  the  admission  that  life  and  nights  were  short, 
lacking  in  the  fever  at  the  Eastlake  dancing;  here, 
rather  than  unsettled  restraint,  was  the  determination 
to  spend  every  excited  nerve  on  sensation,  to  obtain 
the  last  drop  from  glasses  the  contents  and  odors  of 
which  uniquely  resembled  the  drinks  of  pre-prohibi- 
tion.  These  girls,  consciously  animating  their  shapely 
bodies  with  the  allurement  if  not  the  ends  of  creation, 
prostitutes  of  both  temperament  and  fact,  were,  Lee 
Randon  decided,  calmer — yes,  safer — in  mind  and 
purpose  than  were  his  most  admirable  friends. 

Certainly  they  were  better  defined,  more  logically 
placed  than,  for  example,  Mrs.  William  Loyd  Grove 
— her  dress,  her  powdering  and  perfume,  the  warm 
metal  clasped  about  the  softness  of  her  arms,  and  the 

[165] 


CYTHEREA 

indicated  purpose  about  them,  were  not  worlds  apart. 
But  the  latter  met  its  announced  intention;  it  was 
dissipated — normally — in  satiety.  But,  where  Mrs. 
Grove  was  concerned  .  .  .  Lee  speculated.  She  was 
evidently  highly  engaged,  not  a  shade  repelled,  by 
what  she  saw;  in  a  cool  manner  she  drew  his  gaze  to 
a  specially  scarlet  and  effective  dress: 

"With  her  figure  it's  very  successful,"  she  com 
mented. 

What  struck  him  immediately  was  that  the  propor 
tions  she  had  pointed  out  and  her  own  were  identical ; 
and  Lee  had  a  vision  of  Mrs.  Grove  in  the  dress  they 
were  studying.  The  same  thing,  it  appeared,  was  in 
her  mind.  "Well,"  she  challenged  him,  "I  could,  you 
know."  This  he  admitted  discreetly,  and  asked  her 
if  she  cared  to  dance. 

"Why  not?" 

In  his  arms  she  was  at  once  light  and  perceivable; 
everything  a  part  of  her  was  exquisitely  finished;  he 
discovered  more  and  more  surely  that  she  was  flesh 
and  blood,  and  not,  as  he  had  regarded  her,  an  in 
sulated  social  mechanism.  Leaving  the  dancing  floor, 
she  was  careless,  in  the  manner  everywhere  evident,  in 
the  disposition  of  her  skirt.  Lee  had  come  prepared 
for  the  pleasure  to  be  had  from  on-looking;  but  he 
had  become  the  most  oblivious  of  all  the  active  partic 
ipants.  After  a  second  brief  understanding  with  the 
captain,  another  quickly-disposed  currency  note,  there 
was  the  familiar  smothered  uncorking  of  champagne 

[166] 


CYTHEREA 

by  his  ear.  To  Lee  Randon's  lavishness  Mrs.  Grove 
gave  no  attention,  and  he  was  obliged  to  banish  a  petty 
chagrin  by  the  knowledge  that  he  had  fully  met  the 
obligations  of  her  presence.  The  propping  of  her 
elbows  on  the  table,  her  casual  gazing  over  the  lifted 
rim  of  her  glass,  her  silences,  all  admitted  him  to  her 
own  unremarked,  her  exclusive  and  inalienable,  priv 
ilege. 

She  still,  however,  retained  her  personal  remoteness 
from  him;  what  she  gave  belonged  to  him,  in  their 
situation,  conventionally;  it  had  no  greater  signifi 
cance;  and,  forming  nearly  all  of  the  duty  of  life,  her 
life,  she  discharged  her  responsibility  beautifully. 
She  wasn't,  certainly,  gay  in  the  sense  most  familiar 
to  him — Anette,  in  the  same  circumstances,  would  have 
radiated  a  bubbling  sensual  pleasure,  indulged  in  a 
surface  impropriety ;  any  girl  around  them  would  have 
given  more  than  Mrs.  Grove;  everything,  probably. 
But  he  preferred  the  penetrating  judgments,  the  super 
ior  mental  freedom,  of  his  companion.  If  she  were 
interested  in  a  prostitute,  she  didn't,  with  a  laborious 
self-consciousness,  avoid  that  term;  she  was  neither 
obviously  aware  of  those  fragile  vessels  of  pleasure 
nor  ignorant  of  them;  indeed,  Lee  told  himself,  she 
was  more  a  part  of  their  world,  however  continent  she 
might  remain,  than  she  was  of  Fanny's. 

Fanny,  here,  would  have  been  equally  fascinated 
and  shocked;  but,  essentially,  she'd  be  hurt;  and,  at 

[167] 


CYTHEREA 

the  same  time,  rebellious  with  the  innate  resentment  of 
the  pure,  the  contained,  for  the  free.  She  would  never 
have  agreed  to  the  champagne,  either;  they  would  have 
ordered  lemonades  or  claret  cup;  and,  by  midnight, 
gone  back  to  the  hotel.  It  was  now  past  two  o'clock. 
There  was  no  lessening  in  the  vigor  of  the  dancing, 
the  laughter,  or  in  the  stream  of  laden  trays;  no  trace 
of  fatigue  in  Mrs.  Grove.  She  had  the  determined 
resilience  of  a  woman  approaching,  perhaps,  the  de 
cline,  but  not  yet  in  it;  of  one  who  had  danced  into 
innumerable  sun-rises  from  the  nights  before,  destroy 
ing  many  dozens  of  pairs  of  satin  slippers. 

When  it  occurred  to  her  to  gather  up  the  petal-like 
folds  of  her  cloak,  get  her  hands  into  the  gloves  rolled 
back  on  her  wrists,  it  was  nearer  three  than  two.  A 
hollow  voice  on  the  street  called  the  number  of  the 
Grove  automobile,  the  door  closed  smoothly  on  them, 
and  again  she  was  absorbed  into  the  cushions  and  her 
wrap.  But  there  was  a  change  in  his  feeling  for  her, 
an  indefinable  but  potent  boundary  had  been  crossed: 
they  had  looked  together,  informally,  at  life,  at  pas 
sion,  and  the  resulting  sympathy  had,  finally,  put 
aside  the  merely  casual.  Lee  lighted  a  cigarette,  and, 
without  speech,  she  took  it  from  him,  transferred  it  to 
her  own  lips. 

Eastlake  and  Fanny,  Helena  and  Gregory,  seemed 
very  remote ;  a  quality  of  his  being  suppressed  at  home 
here  possessed  him  completely:  in  a  black  silk  evening 
waistcoat,  with  no  responsibilities,  no  thought  of  time 

[168] 


CYTHEREA 

or  work,  he  was,  lightly  and  wholly,  an  idler  in  a 
polite  sphere.  The  orchids  in  their  glass  holder,  dimly 
visible  before  him,  were  a  symbol  of  his  purely 
decorative  engagement  with  life.  Now  Lee  couldn't 
reconcile  himself  to  the  knowledge  that  this  was  no 
more  than  an  interlude — with  music — in  his  other, 
married  existence.  It  was  as  unsubstantial  as  an 
evening's  performance,  in  temporary  finery,  of  a  high 
comedy  of  manners. 

Savina  Grove  said,  "It  has  been  surprisingly  nice." 

"Hasn't  it,"  he  agreed;  "and,  when  you  spoke,  I 
was  trying  to  realize  that  it  will  be  so  soon  over." 

Immediately  after  he  cursed  himself  for  a  blunder, 
a  stupid  error  in  emphasis,  from  which  she  drew  per 
ceptibly  away.  She  extinguished  the  cigarette,  his 
cigarette,  and  that,  as  well,  added  to  the  distance  be 
tween  them. 

"I  should  go  back  to  Eastlake  tomorrow  afternoon," 
he  observed,  in  a  manner  which  he  made  entirely 
detached.  To  that  she  objected  that  he  would  not  see 
Mina  Raff,  nothing  would  be  accomplished.  "She 
might  have  dinner  with  you  tomorrow  night,"  she 
thought;  "Mina  gets  back  to  the  Plaza  a  little  before 
seven.  But  we  can  call  the  studio." 

In  view  of  what  he  had  already  done,  Mrs.  Grove's 
proposal  seemed  unavoidably  reasonable.  He  would 
telephone  Fanny  again  in  the  morning  and  explain. 
Fanny,  his  wife!  Well,  he  continued,  as  though  he 
were  angrily  retorting  to  a  criticism  from  without,  no 

[169] 


CYTHEREA 

man  ever  better  realized  the  splendid  qualities  of  his 
'wife.  That  was  beyond  contradiction;  and  he  sharply 
added  that  not  Fanny,  but  the  role  of  a  wife,  a  house 
wife,  was  under  observation.  Mrs.  Grove  was  mar 
ried,  but  that  didn't  keep  her  from  the  Malmaison,  at 
what  Eastlake  disapprovingly  called  all  hours  of  the 
night.  She  had  no  aspect  of  a  servitude  which,  while 
it  promised  the  most  unlimited  future  rewards,  took 
the  present  grace,  the  charm,  from  women.  That — 
the  consequent  loss  or  gain — was  open  to  question; 
but  the  fact  remained:  for  the  majority  of  women 
marriage  was  fatal  to  their  persons.  Only  the  rich, 
the  fortunate  and  the  unamenable  escaped. 

"In  a  very  few  minutes  now,"  Mrs.  Grove  said, 
"you  will  be  able  to  sleep." 

"I've  never  been  wider  awake,"  he  protested;  "I 
was  thinking  of  how  marriage  submerged  most  women 
while  you  escaped." 

She  laughed  quietly,  incomprehensibly. 

"Well,"  he  insisted,  aggrieved,  "haven't  you?" 

She  leaned  toward  him;  almost,  he  told  himself, 
there  was  a  flash  of  animation  on  her  immobile  face. 
"Escape,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  demanded. 
"Does  anyone  escape — will  young  Morris  and  Mina? 
And  you?" 

"Oh,  not  I,"  he  replied,  thrown  off  his  mental  bal 
ance  by  the  rapid  attack  of  her  questioning;  "I  am 
tied  in  a  thousand  ways.  But  you  surprise  me." 

"I  could,"  she  remarked,  coldly,  returning  to 
[170] 


CYTHEREA 

her  corner.  "Your  self-satisfaction  makes  me  rage. 
How  do  you  dare,  knowing  nothing,  to  decide  what  I 
am  and  what  I  can  do?  You're  like  William,  every 
one  I  meet — so  sure  for  others." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  he  contradicted  her  with  a  rude 
energy;  "and,  after  all,  I  didn't  accuse  you  of  much 
that  was  serious.  I  only  said  you  were  apparently 
above  the  circumstances  that  spoil  so  many  women." 

"It  isn't  necessary  to  repeat  yourself,"  she  reminded 
him  disagreeably;  "I  have  a  trace  of  memory." 

"And  with  it,"  he  answered,  "a  very  unpleasant 
temper." 

"Quite  so,"  she  agreed,  once  more  calm;  "you  seem 
fated  to  tell  me  about  myself.  I  don't  mind,  and  it 
gives  you  such  a  feeling  of  wisdom."  The  car  stopped 
before  the  Grove  house  and,  within,  her  good-night 
was  indifferent  even  for  her.  What,  he  wondered, 
what  the  devil,  had  upset  her?  He  had  never  en 
countered  a  more  incomprehensible  display  of  the 
arrogantly  feminine. 

In  his  room,  however,  re-establishing  his  sense  of 
comfort,  he  found,  on  a  low  table  by  the  bed,  a  choice 
of  whiskies,  charged  water,  cigarettes,  nectarines, 
orange-brown  mangoes,  and  black  Belgian  grapes. 
Attached  to  an  electric  plug  was  a  small  coffee  per 
colator;  for  the  morning,  Lee  gathered.  His  pajamas, 
his  dressing  gown  and  slippers,  were  conveniently  laid 
to  his  hand.  He  was,  in  fact,  so  comfortable  that  he 
had  no  desire  to  get  into  bed;  and  he  sat  smoking, 

[171] 


CYTHEREA 

over  a  tall  drink,  speculating  about  his  hostess.  Per 
haps  she  had  difficulties  with  the  obdurate  correctness 
of  William ;  but  Mrs.  Grove  would  have  been  too  well 
steeled  there  to  show  any  resentment  to  a  virtual  stran 
ger;  no,  whatever  it  was  lay  within  herself.  He  gave 
it  up,  since,  he  proclaimed  aloud,  it  didn't  touch  him. 

The  opened  windows  admitted  the  vast  unsubdued 
clamor  of  New  York;  the  immeasurable  force  of  the 
city  seemed  to  press  in  upon  the  room,  upon  his 
thoughts.  How  different  it  was  from  the  open  coun 
tryside,  the  quiet  scene,  of  his  home  in  Eastlake. 
There  the  lowing  of  a  chance  cow  robbed  of  her  calf, 
her  udder  aching,  the  diminishing  barking  of  dogs, 
and  the  birds — sparrows  in  winter  and  robins  in  the 
spring — were  the  only  sounds  that  disturbed  the  dark. 
In  the  morning  the  farmer  above  Lee  rolled  the  milk 
down  the  road,  past  his  window,  on  a  carrier,  and  the 
milk  cans  made  a  sudden  rattle  and  ringing.  Then 
Christopher  washed  the  porches.  Fanny,  no  matter 
how  late  she  had  been  up  the  night  before,  was  dressed 
by  eight  o'clock,  and  put  fresh  flowers  in  the  vases. 
He  hazarded  the  guess  that  Mrs.  Grove  was  often  in 
bed  until  past  noon;  here  servants  renewed  the  great 
hot-house  roses  with  long  stems,  the  elaborate  flowers 
on  the  dining-table. 

In  the  morning,  as  he  had  foreseen,  the  percolator 
was  connected,  cream  and  sugar  placed  beside  it;  and, 
before  his  shaving  was  over,  he  had  a  cup  of  coffee, 
with  a  cigarette  casting  up  its  fragrant  smoke  from  the 

[172] 


CYTHEREA 

saucer.  His  shoes  might  have  been  lacquered  from 
the  height  of  the  lustre  rubbed  into  them ;  a  voice  the 
perfection  of  trained  sympathetic  concern  inquired  for 
the  exacted  details  of  the  suspended  preparation  of  his 
eggs. 

His  dinner  engagement  with  Mina  Raff,  arranged 
through  her  secretary,  was  for  fifteen  minutes  past 
seven;  and,  meanwhile,  as  Mrs.  Grove  had  offered, 
Adamson  drove  Lee  down-town.  The  afternoon  had 
nearly  gone  before  he  returned  to  East  Sixty-sixth 
Street;  but  the  maid  at  the  door  told  him  that  there 
was  tea  up  in  the  library.  This  he  found  to  be  a  long 
gloomy  room  finished  in  a  style  which,  he  decided, 
might  be  massively  Babylonian.  A  ponderous  table 
for  the  support  of  weightless  trifles  filled  the  middle 
of  the  rug ;  there  were  deep  chairs  of  roan  leather,  with 
an  immense  sofa  like  the  lounge  of  a  club  or  steamer; 
low  bookcases  with  leaded  glass;  and  windows  the 
upper  panes  of  which  were  stained  in  peacock  colors 
and  geometrical  design. 

The  tea  things  were  on  a  wagon  beside  the  center 
table ;  there  were  a  number  of  used  cups  and  crumpled 
napkins,  and  whiskey  glasses,  in  evidence,  but  Mrs. 
Grove  was  alone.  She  had  been  about  to  have  them 
removed,  she  told  him,  when  he  rang.  "No,  I  am  not 
in  a  hurry;  and  it's  such  a  disagreeable  day  you 
ought  to  have  a  highball." 

She  was  in  black,  a  dress  that  he  found  unbecoming, 
[173] 


CYTHEREA 

with  a  collar  high  about  her  throat  and  wide  sleeves 
heavily  embroidered  in  carmine.  "You  will  hate  that 
one,"  she  said  of  the  chair  he  selected;  "I  can't  think 
why  chairs  have  to  be  so  very  uncomfortable — these 
either  swallow  you  whole  or,  like  a  toboggan  slide, 
drop  you  on  the  floor."  Lee  drew  up  a  tabourette  for 
his  glass  and  ash  tray.  The  banal  idea  struck  him 
that,  although  he  had  met  Mrs.  Grove  only  yesterday, 
he  knew  her  well;  rather  he  had  a  sense  of  ease,  of 
the  familiar,  with  her.  The  sole  evidence  she  gave  of 
an  agreement  in  his  feeling  was  that  she  almost  totally 
neglected  to  talk.  She  smoked,  absorbed  in  a  frown 
ing  abstraction.  A  floor  lamp  behind  them  was 
lighted,  and  there  was  an  illumination  at  the  mantel, 
but  the  depths  of  the  library  were  wrapped  in  obscur 
ity:  its  sombreness  had  increased,  the  air  was  heavy 
with  the  dust  of  leather,  a  vague  funereal  oppressive 
ness. 

Lee's  sense  of  familiarity  increased,  but  his  ease 
left  him,  driven  away  by  the  strength  of  a  feeling  not 
exactly  of  being  at  home  but  of  returning  to  an 
old  powerful  influence.  Mrs.  Grove's  head  was  in 
shadow.  There  was  a  stir  at  the  door,  and  William 
Grove  entered.  He  was,  he  told  Lee  civilly,  glad  that 
Adamson  had  been  of  use.  "I  walk  whenever  it's 
possible,"  he  proceeded;  "but  that  way  you  wouldn't 
have  reached  Beaver  Street  yet.  Nothing  to  drink, 
thanks,  Savina,  but  a  cigarette — "  Lee  Randon 
reached  forward  with  the  silver  box  and,  inadvertently, 

[174] 


CYTHEREA 

he  pressed  into  Mrs.  Grove's  knee.  He  heard  a  thin 
clatter,  there  was  a  minute  hot  splash  on  his  hand,  and 
he  realized  that  she  had  dropped  her  spoon.  She  sat 
rigidly,  half  turned  toward  the  light,  with  a  face  that 
shocked  him :  it  was  not  merely  pale,  but  white,  drawn 
and  harsh,  and  her  eyes,  losing  every  vestige  of  ordi 
nary  expression,  stared  at  him  in  a  set  black  intensity. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Lee  Randon  said  mechanically,  and  he 
offered  the  cigarette  box  to  the  other  man;  but,  inter 
nally,  he  was  consumed  with  anger.  The  woman 
positively  was  a  fool  to  mistake  his  awkwardness;  he 
hadn't  supposed  that  anyone  could  be  so  super-sensitive 
and  suspicious;  and  it  damaged  his  pride  that,  clearly, 
she  should  consider  him  capable  of  such  a  juvenile 
proceeding.  Lee  rose  and  excused  himself  stiffly,  ex 
plaining  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  dress ;  and,  in  his 
room,  telephoning  Fanny,  he  determined  to  leave  New 
York,  the  Groves,  as  early  as  possible  in  the  morning. 

Fanny  responded  from  Eastlake  in  a  tone  of  unend 
ing  patience ;  nothing  he  could  do,  her  voice  intimated, 
would  exhaust  her  first  consideration  of  him;  she 
wouldn't — how  could  she? — question  the  wisdom  of 
his  decisions,  even  when  they  seemed,  but,  of  course, 
only  to  her  faulty  understanding,  incomprehensible. 

"You  make  it  sound  as  though  I  were  over  here  on 
an  errand  of  my  own,"  he  protested  cheerfully;  "I'd 
rather  be  in  Eastlake." 

Helena,  she  told  him,  had  been  bad  again;  there 
was  a  recognized  opinion  between  them  that,  while 

[175] 


CYTHEREA 

Gregory  was  like  his  mother,  Helena  surprisingly  re 
sembled  Lee  Randon.  "Well,  don't  be  too  severe,"  he 
said.  Someone  had  to  be,  the  reply  came,  faint  and 
indistinct.  "Is  there  anything  else?"  he  asked.  Of 
course,  how  stupid,  she  was  keeping  him;  the  sound 
was  now  open  and  colored  with  self-reproach.  She 
was  so  sorry.  "Damn!"  Lee  exclaimed,  leaving  the 
telephone  with  the  feeling  that  Fanny  had  repelled  his 
affection.  Women  were  beyond  him. 

In  this  mood  he  was  unprepared  for  the  appearance 
of  Mina  Raff,  immediately  after  his  name  was  sent 
up  to  her  rooms,  on  the  minute  arranged.  What,  next, 
about  her  occurred  to  him  was  the  evidence  of  her 
weariness.  A  short  and  extremely  romantic  veil  hung 
from  the  close  brim  of  her  hat — with  her  head  bent 
forward  she  gazed  at  him  seriously  through  the  orna 
mental  filaments;  her  chin  raised,  the  intent  regard  of 
her  celebrated  eyes  was  unhampered.  She  didn't  care 
where  they  went,  she  replied  to  his  question,  except 
that  she  preferred  a  quiet  place,  where  they  could  talk. 

The  St.  Regis,  he  thought,  would  best  answer  this 
requirement;  and  he  had  started  toward  the  taxi-cab 
stand  when  she  informed  him  that  she  had  kept  her 
car.  It  was  larger  and  more  elaborately  fitted  than 
the  Grove  limousine;  in  its  deep  upholstery,  its  silk 
curtains  and  velvet  carpet  and  gold  mounted  vanities, 
Mina  Raff  was  remarkably  child-like,  small;  her  face, 
brightening  at  intervals  in  the  rapidly  passing  lights 
outside,  was  touched  by  pathos;  she  seemed  crushed 

[176] 


CYTHEREA 

by  the  size,  the  swiftness  and  complexity,  of  her  auto 
mobile,  and  by  the  gathering  imperious  weight  of  her 
fame.  She  was  still,  however,  appealingly  simple ;  no 
matter  what  she  might  do  it  would  be  invested  with  the 
aspect  of  innocence  which,  admirable  for  her  art,  never 
for  an  instant  deserted  her  personality. 

Lee  Randon,  who  liked  her  better  with  each  accu 
mulating  minute,  wondered  why  he  was  completely 
outside  the  disturbance  of  her  charm.  As  a  young 
man,  he  concluded,  he  would  have  been  lost  in  a  pas 
sionate  devotion  to  her.  Mina  realized  to  the  last 
possible  indefinite  grace  the  ideal,  always  a  silver  ab 
straction,  of  youth;  the  old  worn  simile  of  an  April 
moon,  distinguished  in  her  case  by  the  qualification 
wistful,  was  the  most  complete  description  of  her  he 
possessed.  Young  men — Peyton  Morris — were  wor 
shippers  of  the  moon,  the  unattainable ;  and  when  they 
happily  attained  a  reality  they  hid  it  in  iridescent 
fancy. 

What  now  formed  Lee's  vision  had,  together  with 
no  less  a  mystery,  a  greater  warmth  and  implied  real 
ity  from  him.  Cytherea  and  Mina  Raff  shared  noth 
ing;  somehow  the  latter  lacked  the  magnetism  essen 
tial  to  the  stirring  of  his  desire.  This,  perhaps,  was 
inevitable  to  his  age,  to  the  swift  passage  of  that  young 
idealism:  after  forty,  the  nebulous  became  a  need  for 
sensuous  reality.  Certain  phases  of  Mina,  as  well, 
were  utterly  those  of  a  child — she  had  the  eluding 
sweetness,  the  flower-like  indifference,  of  Helena,  of 

[177] 


CYTHEREA 

a  temperamental  virginity  so  absolute  that  it  was 
incapable  of  understanding  or  communicating  an 
emotional  fever.  But,  in  the  degree  of  her  genius, 
she  was  above,  superior  to,  experience;  it  was  not,  for 
her,  necessary ;  she  was  not  changed  by  it,  but  changed 
it  into  herself,  into  the  validity  of  whatever  she  intrin 
sically  was. 

His  thoughts  returned  to  the  unfortunate  occur 
rence  in  the  library  at  the  Groves';  his  indignation  at 
Mrs.  Grove  was  complicated,  puzzled,  by  the  whole 
loss  of  the  detached  self-possession  which,  he  had 
thought,  was  her  most  persistent  characteristic.  Her 
expression,  in  memory,  specially  baffled  him;  under 
other,  accountable,  circumstances  he  should  have  said 
that  it  was  a  look  of  suffering,  of  drawn  pain.  He 
couldn't  recall  the  appearance  of  a  shade  of  anger; 
yet  the  spoon  had  fallen  as  if  from  a  hand  numb  with 
— with  resentment.  No  other  deduction  was  possible. 
He  wished  it  were  permissible  to  speak  to  her  again 
about  what — but  obviously — had  been  no  more  than 
an  accident;  he  objected  to  leaving  such  a  ridiculous 
misconception  of  himself  lodged  permanently  in  her 
mind.  But  he  couldn't  bring  it  up  again;  and,  after 
all,  it  mattered  very  little.  Mrs.  Grove  was  welcome 
to  whatever  flattering  of  her  seductiveness  her  pride 
demanded.  When  he  had  dispatched,  with  Mina 
Raff,  his  duty  to  Claire,  succeeded  or  failed — the 
latter,  he  added,  was  of  course  inevitable — he'd  return 
to  Eastlake  and  the  Groves  would  go  out  of  his  life. 

[178] 


CYTHEREA 

The  curtain  o'f  what  he  had  thought  of  as  a  play,  an 
interlude,  would  fall  heavily,  conclusively,  and  the 
music  end. 

At  the  St.  Regis  he  chose  the  more  informal  dining- 
room  with  panellings  and  high  columns  of  wood,  and 
medallions  in  white  marble.  It  was  neither  full  nor 
empty,  and  they  were  conducted  to  a  table  set  for  two. 
Lee  was  conscious  of  heads  turning,  and  of  a  faint 
running  whisper — Mina  Raff  had  been  recognized. 
However,  without  any  exhibited  consciousness  of  this, 
she  addressed  herself  to  him  with  a  pretty  exclusion; 
and,  pausing  to  explain  her  indifference  to  food,  she 
left  the  selection  of  everything  but  the  salad  to  Lee; 
she  had,  she  admitted,  a  preference  for  alligator  pears 
cut  into  small  cubes  with  a  French  dressing.  That 
disposed  of,  he  turned  to  her : 

"I  noticed,  at  the  Plaza,  that  you  are  hard  at  it." 

"Indeed,  yes,"  she  replied;  "but  we  are  still  only 

rehearsing;  not  a  scene  has  been  shot.     You  see,  that 

makes  it  all  so  expensive;  I  want  to  do  as  well  as 

possible  for  the  men  who  have  money  and  confidence 


in  me." 


This,  from  her  manner,  her  deceptive  look  of  fragil 
ity  everywhere  drooping  with  regret,  was  patent. 
What  she  said,  thought,  felt,  was  magnificently  re 
flected,  given  visibility,  by  her  fluid  being.  "But  you 
haven't  come  over  here  to  talk  to  me  about  that,"  she 
said  directly;  "you  want  me  to  give  up  Peyton." 

[179] 


CYTHEREA 

He  nodded,  relieved  that  she  had  made  the  intro 
duction  of  his  purpose  so  easy. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,  before  we  begin/'  she  warned 
him,  "that  I  can't.  Nothing  can  convince  me  that 
we  are  wrong.  We  didn't  try  to  have  this  happen,  we 
did  all  we  could — but  it  was  too  late — to  prevent  it," 
Mina  Raff  repeated  Peyton's  own  assurance  to  him. 
"Things  were  taken  out  of  our  hands.  Why  I  went 
to  Eastlake  I  don't  know,  it  was  dreadfully  inconven 
ient,  and  my  director  did  what  he  could  to  keep  me 
working.  But,  as  you  know,  I  persisted.  Why?" 
She  stopped  and  regarded  him  imploringly,  through 
the  romantic  veil.  "I  haven't  the  smallest  idea,"  she 
continued.  "Peyton  had  seen  me  again  in  New  York; 
I  knew  then  that  I  meant  a  lot  to  him;  but  it  couldn't 
have  happened  if  I  hadn't  stayed  with  Anette." 

Her  voice,  her  wonderment,  he  thought,  were  colored 
by  superstition.  Evidently,  up  to  a  certain  point,  she 
had  resisted,  and  then — how  charming  it  must  have 
been  for  Morris — she  collapsed.  She  had  convinced 
herself  that  they  were  intended  for  each  other.  Lee 
asked,  "How  well  do  you  know  Peyton?" 

"Not  at  all  in  the  way  you  do,"  she  admitted 
candidly;  "I  understand  him  only  with  my  heart. 
But  isn't  that  everything?  I  know  that  he  is  very  pure, 
and  doesn't  ordinarily  care  for  women — usually  I 
have  no  feeling  about  men — and  that  he  played  foot 
ball  at  Princeton  and  is  very  strong.  You  have  no 
idea,  Mr.  Randon,  how  different  he  is  from  the  men 

[180] 


CYTHEREA 

I  am  thrown  with !  There  are  some  actors,  of  course, 
who  are  very  fine,  wonderful  to  work  with;  but  the 
ones  not  quite  so  finished.  .  .  .  It's  natural,  for  many 
reasons,  in  a  woman  to  act;  but  there  is  something, 
well — something,  about  men  acting,  as  a  rule;  don't 
you  agree?" 

Lee  did,  and  told  her  so  with  a  growing  pleasure  in 
the  Tightness  of  her  perceptions.  " Peyton  is  altogether 
different  from  the  men  of  the  stage,"  he  developed  her 
observation;  "and  it  is  a  capital  thing  he  did  play 
football;  for,  in  the  next  year  or  so,  until  he  grows 
used  to  your  life,  he'll  have  a  collection  of  men  to 
knock  down.  I'd  like  to  tell  you  whatever  I  have 
discovered  about  him,  for  your  own  consideration,  and 
Peyton  is  a  snob.  That  isn't  necessarily  a  term  of 
contempt;  with  him  it  simply  means  that  he  is  im 
patient,  doubtful,  at  what  he  doesn't  know.  And  first 
under  that  head  come  the  arts ;  they  have  no  existence 
for  him  or  his  friends.  A  play  or  a  book  pleases  him 
or  it  doesn't,  he  approves  of  its  limiting  conventional 
morals,  or  violently  condemns  what  he  thinks  is  loose 
ness,  and  that's  the  extent  of  his  interest." 

Mina  Raff  gazed  at  him  blankly,  this  time  from 
under  the  scallops  of  the  veil.  "That  is  hard  to  be 
lieve,"  she  objected;  "he  talks  to  me  beautifully  about 
my  pictures  and  a  future  on  the  stage.  He  says  that 
I  am  going  to  revolutionize  moving  pictures — " 

"I  don't  question  that,"  he  put  in;  "but  did  Peyton 
show  you  how  it  would  be  done?" 

[181] 


CYTHEREA 

She  hesitated,  gracefully  lowering  her  potent  gaze. 

"Probably,"  Lee  Randon  added  keenly,  "it  was  to 
happen  because  you  were  so  excessively  beautiful." 
There  was  no  reply  to  this.  "I  don't  need  to  tell  you," 
he  admitted,  "that  I  did  my  best  to  discourage  him; 
ami  I  pointed  out  that  the  time  must  come  when  you 
would  fancy,  no,  need,  someone  else." 

"Oh,  that  was  cruel! "  she  cried  softly;  "and  it  isn't, 
it  won't  be  true.  Do  you  think,  just  because  I  happen 
to  be  an  actress,  that  I  can't  be  faithful?" 

"It  is  all  a  question  of  degree,"  he  instructed  her, 
"of  talent  or  genius.  Talent  may  be  faithful  to  a 
number  of  things — a  man  or  a  country  or  even  an 
ideal;  but  the  only  fidelity  of  genius  is  to  itself." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  she  reflected,  sadly. 

"Why  should  you?"  he  demanded;  "you  are  being 
natural;  I  am  the  disturbance,  the  conventional  voice 
sentimentally  reading  from  the  call  book.  But  you 
don't  have  those  in  moving  pictures:  it  would  be  a 
sentimentally  stupid  director.  You  must  believe  me: 
your  acting  will  always  be  incomprehensible  to  Peyton: 
he  will  approve  of  the  results  and  raise  hell — for  the 
comparatively  short  time  he  will  last — with  the  means. 
Tell  me  this:  together  with  his  conviction  that  you'd 
carry  the  stage  up  into  heaven,  didn't  he  speak  of  your 
retiring?" 

The  faint  smile  about  her  lips  was  a  sufficient 
answer.  That  smile,  he  recognized,  pensive  and  un- 
lingering,  served  a  wide  and  practical  variety  of 

[182] 


CYTHEREA 

purposes.  "In  the  end,"  he  insisted,  "Peyton  will 
want  to  take  you  to  a  home  in  a  correct  suburb;  that 
conception  he'll  never  get  away  from."  She  an 
swered  : 

"And  what  if  I  liked  that,  wanted  it?  You  mustn't 
think  my  life  is  entirely  joyful." 

"I  don't,"  he  as  promptly  assured  her;  "but  you  will 
never  get  away  from  it;  you  will  never  sit  contentedly 
through  long  afternoons  playing  bridge;  you're 
cursed,  if  you  want  to  call  it  that." 

"I  saw  Peyton's  child,"  she  said  at  a  tangent.  "He 
had  hold  of  the  nurse's  apron  in  such  a  funny  decided 
fist.  I  wanted  to  hug  him,  but  I  remembered  that  it 
wasn't  the  thing  to  do.  She  has  that,"  a  shade  of 
defiance  darkened  her  voice  at  her  reference  to  Claire. 

"Babies  are  no  longer  overwhelmingly  important," 
Lee  retorted;  "not  in  the  face  of  emotion  itself;  they 
have  become  a  sort  of  unavoidable,  almost  an  un 
desirable  by-product." 

"They  won't  be  with  me,"  Mina  Raff  promised. 

It  was  evident  to  him  that  she  saw  herself  in  the 
role  of  a  mother;  her  face  had  a  tender  maternal 
glamour,  her  eyes  were  misted  with  sentiment;  a  superb 
actress  "A  baby  of  my  own,"  she  whispered;  "a 
baby  and  a  house  and  Peyton." 

"Nothing  duller  could  be  imagined."  Momentarily 
he  lost  his  self-restraint.  "You  have  something  in 
imitable,  supremely  valuable,  and  you  are  dreaming 
like  a  rabbit.  If  you  must  be  a  mother,  be  that  one 

[183] 


CYTHEREA 

on  the  screen,  for  the  thrilling  of  millions  of  limited 
minds." 

"He  seemed  to  like  me."  She  had  paid  no  attention 
to  him,  back  again  in  the  thought  of  the  Morrises'  son. 

"If  he  did,"  Lee  dryly  added;  "he  will  very  soon 
get  over  it;  Ira  won't  love  you  conspicuously." 

"Why — why  that  never  entered  my  head,"  Mina 
was  startled;  "but,  yes,  how  could  he?  And  I  can't 
bear  to  have  anyone,  the  most  insignificant  person 
alive,  hate  me.  It  makes  me  too  wretched  to  sleep. 
They  will  have  to  understand,  be  generous;  I'll  ex 
plain  so  it  is  entirely  clear  to  them."  Her  voice  bore 
an  actual  note  of  fear,  her  delicate  lips  trembled 
uncontrollably. 

"You  can't  blame  them,  Ira  and  his  mother,  if  they 
refuse  to  listen.  Eastlake  as  a  town  will  dispense 
with  you;  and  Claire's  family — it  is  really  quite 
notable — will  have  their  say  wherever  they  live,  in 
Charleston  and  London  and  Spain.  When  Ira  is 
grown  up  and,  in  his  turn,  has  children,  they  will  be 
very  bitter  about  your  memory.  However,  publicly, 
I  suppose  it  will  do  you  more  good  than  harm.  The 
public  loves  such  scandal;  but,  with  that  advertise 
ment,  the  other  will  continue.  It  isn't  logical,  I'll 
admit;  except  for  Claire  I  should  support  you.  That 
is  where,  and  only  where,  I  am  dragged  into  your 
privacy.  And,  too,  for  your  sake,  it  would  have  been 
better  if  you  had  hit  on  a  different  sort  of  man,  one 
without  the  background  of  such  stubborn  traditions. 

[184] 


CYTHEREA 

You  will  have  to  fight  them  both  in  him — where  they, 
too,  may  come  to  blame  you — and  about  you.  There 
is  a  strain  of  narrow  intolerance  through  all  that 
blood." 

Mina  Raff's  eyes  fluttered  like  two  clear  brown 
butterflies  which,  preparing  to  settle,  had  been  rudely 
disturbed.  Then  her  mouth  was  compressed,  it  grew 
firm  and  firmer,  obdurate;  as  though  an  internal 
struggle,  evident  in  her  tense  immobility,  had  been  de 
cided  against  what  was  being  powerfully  urged  upon 
her.  A  conviction  that  here,  too,  finally,  he  had 
failed,  was  in  possession  of  Lee  Randon,  when  he  saw 
the  determination  drain  from  her  face:  it  assumed  a 
child's  expression  of  unreasoning  primitive  dread. 
She  drew  a  hand  across  her  forehead. 

"I  shall  have  to  think,"  she  told  him;  "I  am  very 
much  upset.  It  makes  me  cold,  what  you  said.  Why 
did  you  come  to  New  York  and  talk  to  me  like  this? 
Oh,  I  wish  Peyton  were  here;  he'd  answer  you;  he 
isn't  a  coward  like  me." 

"Since  you  are  so  tired,  and  I've  been  so  very  objec 
tionable,  I  think  perhaps  you  had  better  go  back  to 
your  hotel,"  Lee  proposed.  "It's  after  ten."  She  rose 
immediately,  but  had  to  remain  until  the  waiter  was 
summoned  with  their  account.  In  her  limousine  she 
seemed  smaller,  more  lost  in  her  fate  and  money,  than 
before.  She  resembled  a  crushed  and  lovely  flower; 
and  Lee  reflected  that  it  was  a  shame  no  one  was  there 

[185] 


CYTHEREA 

to  revive  her.  Mina  Raff,  at  the  Plaza,  insisted, 
holding  his  hand  in  a  mingled  thoughtfulness  and  pic 
torial  misery,  on  sending  him  to  the  Groves' ;  and  his 
last  glimpse  of  her,  over  his  shoulder,  was  of  a  slight 
figure  hurled  into  upper  expensive  mansions  by  an 
express  elevator. 

A  car  not  the  Groves'  was  outside  their  house;  and, 
as  Lee  was  passing  the  drawing-room  doors,  William 
Grove  called  him  in.  He  found  there  a  Dr.  Daven- 
cott  and  his  wife,  obviously  on  terms  of  close  intimacy 
with  the  house.  The  physician  was  a  thickly-built 
man  with  an  abrupt  manner  continually  employed  in 
sallies  of  a  vigorous  but  not  unkindly  humor.  Lee 
gathered  that  his  practice  was  large  and  select;  and 
he  quickly  saw  the  reason,  the  explanation,  of  this: 
Dr.  Davencott  had  carried  the  tonic  impatience  of 
earlier  years  among  inconsequential  people  into  a 
sphere  where  bullying  was  a  novelty  with  a  direct 
traceable  salutary  effect.  But  whatever  harshness 
was  visible  in  him  was  tempered  by  his  wife,  who 
was  New  England,  Boston  itself,  at  its  best.  She 
had  a  grave  charm,  a  wit,  rather  than  humor,  which 
irradiated  her  seriousness,  and  gave  even  her  tentative 
remarks  an  air  of  valuable  finality. 

To  this  Mrs.  Grove  contributed  little.  She  prac 
tically  avoided  speaking  to  Lee  Randon;  and  he  was 
certain  that  she  was,  cheaply  and  inexcusably,  offended 
at  him.  Then,  in  moving,  her  gaze  caught  his,  their 

[186] 


CYTHEREA 

eyes  held  fixed;  and,  as  he  looked,  the  expression  he 
had  seen  on  her  face  that  afternoon  in  the  library, 
drawn  and  white  with  staring  black  eyes,  came  upon 
her.  It  amazed  him  so  much  that  he,  too,  sat  regard 
ing  her  in  an  intentness  which  took  no  account  of  the 
others.  One  of  Mrs.  Grove's  hands,  half  hidden  in 
green  tulle,  was  clenched.  She  breathed  in  an  audible 
sigh  and,  with  what  appeared  to  be  a  wrenching  effort, 
turned  from  him  to  the  general  conversation. 

Lee  Randon,  losing  his  first  impression  of  her  at 
titude,  was  totally  unable  to  comprehend  the  more 
difficult  state  that  had  its  place.  A  possible  explana 
tion  he  dismissed  before  it  had  crystallized  into 
thought.  At  the  same  time,  the  restlessness  which  had 
left  him  for  the  past  twenty-four  hours  returned,  more 
insistent  than  ever.  He  felt  that  it  would  be  impos 
sible  to  remain  seated,  calmly  talking,  for  another 
minute.  The  conversation  of  the  Davencotts  that  had 
so  engaged  him  now  only  sounded  like  a  senseless 
clatter  of  words  and  unendurable  laughter.  He 
wished  they  would  go;  that  all  of  them  except  Savina 
Grove  would  vanish ;  but  why  he  wanted  her  to  stay, 
why  he  wished  to  be  alone  with  her,  and  what,  in 
such  a  circumstance,  he  would  say,  were  all  mysteries. 
Lee  determined  to  rise  and  make  his  bow,  to  escape; 
he  was  aware  of  an  indefinable  oppression,  like  that 
he  had  often  experienced  during  a  heavy  electric 
storm;  he  had  the  absurd  illusion  that  a  bolt  of  light- 
US?] 


CYTHEREA 

ning.  .  .  .  Lee  Randon  didn't  stir:  he  sat  listening 
with  a  set  smile,  automatic  small  speech,  and  a  heart 
with  an  unsteady  rising  pound. 

The  Doctor's  stories,  he  thought,  went  on  unsup- 
portably;  his  wife  was  wise,  correct,  just,  to  a  hair's 
breadth.  Good  God,  when  would  they  go?  Now 
— there  was  a  break  in  the  conversation — he  would 
rise  and  say  good-night.  Probably  they  wanted  to 
discuss  things  more  personal  than  his  presence  allowed 
and  were  waiting  for  just  that.  He  was  aware  that 
Mrs.  Grove's  gaze,  as  though  against  her  resolute 
effort,  was  moving  toward  him ;  but,  quite  desperately, 
he  avoided  it;  he  gazed  up  at  a  chandelier  of  glitter 
ing  and  coruscating  glass  and  down  at  a  smooth  carpet 
with  Chinese  ideographs  on  a  light  background.  He 
heard  the  flexible  vibration  of  the  pleasure  traffic  on 
Fifth  Avenue;  and,  perhaps  because  it  was  so  dif 
ferent,  it  reminded  him  of  the  ringing  milk  cans  in 
the  early  morning  by  his  house. 

Lee  Randon  made  a  sharp  effort  to  rouse  himself 
from  what  threatened  to  be  a  stupor  faintly  lurid  with 
conceptions  of  insanity;  and  the  result  of  this  mental 
drawing  himself  erect  was  even  more  startling,  more 
disconcerting,  than  his  previous  condition.  It  came 
from  the  realization  that  what  animated  Mrs.  Grove 
was  passion.  This  was  incredible,  but  it  was  true; 
he  had  never  before  seen,  nor  imagined,  such  an  instant 
sultry  storm  of  emotions  held  precariously  in  check. 
Beyond  measure  it  surprised  and  baffled  and  agitated 

[188] 


CYTHEREA 

him.  He  understood  now  that  sense  of  impending 
lightning;  and,  at  the  same  time,  he  had  a  sense  that 
a  peremptory  brass  gong  had  been  struck  beside  him, 
and  that  he  was  deafened  by  the  reverberations.  Mrs. 
Grove's  still  pallid  face,  her  contained,  almost  precise, 
manner,  took  on  a  new  meaning — he  saw  them,  fan 
tastically,  as  a  volcanic  crust  that,  under  observation, 
had  hardened  against  the  fire  within.  Then  he  was 
at  a  loss  to  grasp  why  he,  Lee  Randon,  was  permitted 
to  see  so  much. 

His  thoughts  returned  to  himself — the  voices  of  the 
Davencotts,  of  William  Loyd  Grove,  echoed  from  a 
distance  on  his  hearing — and  he  tried  to  re-arrange 
his  bearing  toward  his  unsought  discovery:  this  was 
of  enormous  importance.  He  must  at  once  regulate 
his  approach  to  Mrs.  Grove,  get  himself  firmly  in 
hand;  the  situation,  for  him  particularly,  had  far- 
reaching  unpredictable  possibilities.  For  all  her 
exactness,  Savina  Grove  had  a  very  exclusive  and 
definite  attractiveness;  and,  faced  by  such  a  dilemma, 
Lee  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  doubting  the  ultimate 
regularity  of  his  response. 

But  he  was,  he  thought,  mentally  halting,  racing 
absurdly  to  unjustified  conclusions ;  nothing,  naturally, 
disturbing  would  arise;  but  that  assurance,  the  heights 
of  reason,  soon  faded.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
the  cause  of  Mrs.  Grove's  blanched  staring:  just  as 
there  was  no  evasion  of  the  danger  created  by  no  more 
than  his  scant  recognition.  Passion  discovered  was 

[189] 


CYTHEREA 

a  thousand  diameters  increased;  mutually  admitted, 
it  swept  aside  all  opposition.  Lee  Randon,  however, 
had  no  intention  of  involving  himself  there  while, 
ironically,  he  was  engaged  in  securing  for  Claire 
Morris  her  husband;  he  didn't  propose  to  compromise 
his  ease  of  mind  with  William  Grove's  wife.  There 
was,  as  well,  the  chance  that  she  was  a  little  un 
balanced;  progressing,  he  might  involve  himself  in 
a  regrettable,  a  tragic,  fix.  He  would  not  progress, 
that  was  all  there  was  to  that!  Lee  felt  better,  freer 
already,  at  this  resolution;  he  wasn't,  he  protested 
inwardly,  a  seducer  of  women;  the  end  itself,  the  con 
summation,  of  seduction,  was  without  tyrannical 
power  over  him.  Lee  wasn't  materially,  patiently, 
sensual  in  that  uncomplicated  manner.  No,  his  rest 
lessness  was  more  mysterious,  situated  deeper,  than 
that;  it  wasn't  so  readily  satisfied,  drugged,  dismissed. 
The  fact  struck  him  that  it  had  little  or  no  animal 
urgency;  and  in  this,  it  might  be,  he  was  less  lucky 
than  unlucky. 

Mrs.  Davencott  rose  and  resumed  her  wrap,  retained 
with  her  on  the  back  of  the  chair.  Lee  met  the  pleas 
ant  decisiveness  of  her  capable  hand,  the  doctor 
grasped  his  fingers  with  a  robust  witticism;  and  he 
was  replying  to  the  Davencotts'  geniality  when  he  had 
a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Grove's  face  turned  slightly  from 
him:  the  curve  of  her  cheek  met  the  pointed  chin  and 
the  graceful  contour  of  her  exposed  long  throat;  there 
was  the  shadow  of  a  tormenting  smile  on  the  pale 

[190] 


CYTHEREA 

vermilion  of  her  lips,  in  her  half  closed  eyes;  her 
hair,  in  that  light,  was  black.  A  sensation  of  cold 
ness,  a  spiritual  shiver,  went  through  Lee  Randon; 
the  resemblance  that  had  eluded  him  was  mercilessly 
clear — it  was  to  the  doll,  to  Cytherea. 

When  Dr.  Davencott  and  his  wife  had  gone  Lee 
sank  back  into  his  chair,  more  disorganized  by  his 
culminating  discovery  than  by  any  of  the  extraordi 
nary  conditions  that  had  preceded  it.  Its  quality 
of  the  unexpected,  however,  wasn't  enough  to  account 
for  the  profound  effect  on  'him;  that  was  buried  in 
the  secret  of  instinctive  recognitions.  "Well,  the 
thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  go  to  bed,"  he  said  aloud, 
but  it  was  no  more  than  an  unconvinced  mutter,  ad 
dressed  to  the  indeterminate  region  of  his  feet. 
Savina  Grove  was  standing  by  the  door,  in  the  place, 
the  position,  in  which  she  had  said  good-bye  to  the 
Davencotts.  Her  flamboyant  tulle  skirt,  contrasted 
with  the  tightly-fitting  upper  part  of  her  dress,  gave 
her,  now,  in  the  sombre  crowded  furnishings,  the  rich 
draped  brocades,  of  the  room,  an  aspect  of  mid- Vic 
torian  unreality. 

"It  is  for  me,  as  well,"  she  agreed,  but  so  long 
after  he  had  spoken  that  the  connection  between  their 
remarks  was  almost  lost.  However,  neither  of  them 
made  a  movement  to  leave  the  drawing-room,  Savina 
Grove  returned  slowly  to  her  chair.  "No  one,  I  think, 
has  ever  found  it  out  like  that."  Her  remark  was 

[191] 


CYTHEREA 

without  intelligible  preliminary,  but  he  grasped  her 
meaning  at  once.  "How  you  happened  to  stir  it  in 
me  I  have  no  idea — "  she  stopped  and  looked  at  him 
intently.  "A  terrible  accident!  I  would  have  done 
anything,  gone  any  distance,  to  avoid  it.  I  am  un 
able,  with  you,  to  pretend — that's  curious — and  that 
in  itself  gives  me  a  feeling  of  helplessness.  All  sorts 
of  impossible  things  are  coming  into  my  head  to  say 
to  you.  I  mustn't."  Her  voice  was  brittle. 

"There  is  no  need  for  you  to  say  what  would  make 
you  miserable,"  he  replied.  "I  am  not  in  a  position 
to  question  you;  at  the  same  time  I  can't  pretend — 
perhaps  the  safest  thing  of  all — not  to  understand 
what,  entirely  against  your  will,  I've  seen.  I  am  very 
much,  very  naturally,  disturbed  by  it;  but  you  have 
nothing  to  worry  about." 

"You  say  that  because  you  don't  know,  you  can't 
possibly  think,  what  goes  on  here,"  she  pressed  a 
hand  to  her  breast.  "Why,"  her  words  were  blurred 
in  a  mounting  panic,  "I  have  lost  my  sense  of  shame 
with  you.  It's  gone."  She  gazed  despairingly  around 
as  if  she  expected  to  see  that  restraining  quality  em 
bodied  and  recoverable  in  the  propriety  of  the  room. 
"I'm  frightened,"  she  gasped.  Lee  rose  instinctively, 
and  moved  toward  her  with  a  gesture  of  reassurance, 
but  she  cried,  "Don't!  don't!  don't!"  three  times  with 
an  increasing  dread.  He  went  back  to  his  chair. 

"Now  I  have  to — I  want  to — tell  you  about  it," 
she  went  on  rapidly;  "it  has  always  been  in  me  as 

[192] 


CYTHEREA 

long  as  I  can  remember,  when  I  was  hardly  more 
than  a  child  sitting  alone;  and  I  have  always  been 
afraid  and  ashamed.  The,  nicest  thing  to  call  it  is 
feeling;  but  in  such  an  insane  degree;  at  night  it 
comes  over  me  in  waves,  like  a  warm  sea.  I  wanted 
and  wanted  love.  But  not  in  the  little  amounts  that 
satisfied  the  others — the  men  and  girls  together.  I 
couldn't  do  any  of  the  small  things  they  did  with 
safety:  this — this  feeling  would  sweep  up  over  me 
and  I'd  think  I  was  going  to  die. 

"All  that  I  had  inherited  and  been  told  made  me 
sure  that  I  was  horridly  immodest;  I  wouldn't,  if  it 
could  be  helped  at  all,  let  anyone  see  inside  me;  I 
couldn't  have  men  touch  me;  and  whenever  I  began  to 
like  one  I  ran.  It  was  disgusting,  I  was  brought  up  to 
believe ;  I  thought  there  was  something  wrong  with  me, 
that  I  was  a  bad  girl ;  and  I  struggled,  oh,  for  days  on 
end,  to  keep  it  hidden." 

It  was  strange,  Lee  told  himself,  that  marriage, 
the  birth  of  her  son,  hadn't  made  her  more  happily 
normal;  and,  as  if  she  had  perceived  his  thoughts, 
she  added,  "Even  from  William.  It  would  have 
shocked  him,  sickened  him,  really,  more  than  the  rest. 
He  had  to  dominate  me,  be  masculine,  and  I  had  to 
be  modest,  pursued — when  I  could  have  killed  him." 
Her  emotion  swept  her  to  her  feet.  "But  I  was,  he 
thought,  proper;  although  it  tore  and  beat  and 
pounded  me  till  I  was  more  often  ill  than  not.  Young 
William  nearly  grew  up  and,  because  of  him,  I  was 

[193] 


CYTHEREA 

sure  I  had  controlled  it;  but  he  was  killed.     Still,  in 
five  or  six  years  it  would  be  over;  and  now  you,  I — " 

"Nothing  has  happened,"  he  heavily  reiterated; 
"nothing  has  or  can  happen.  We  are  neither  of  us 
completely  young;  and,  as  you  say,  in  a  few  years  all 
will  be  over,  solved.  We  are  both,  it  seems,  happily 
married."  She  interrupted  him  to  cry,  "Is  anyone 
happily  married?  Don't  we  fool  ourselves  and 
doesn't  life  fool  us?" 

"It's  the  best  course  in  a  bad  affair." 

"Bah ! "  She  was  infuriated  at  him.  "You  are 
like  the  others — worms  in  chestnuts.  It  is  bad  be 
cause  you  are  contented.  I  hate  life  as  much  as  you 
do,  far  more ;  but  I  am  not  satisfied ;  how  could  anyone 
be?" 

He,  too,  had  risen,  and  stood  close  before  her. 
"Don't  make  a  mistake  about  me,"  he  warned  her; 
"there  are  a  great  many  men  whom  it  would  be  safer 
to  tell  this  to.  If  I  haven't  had  such  a  sharp  struggle 
as  you,  I've  been  wondering — yes,  when  I  should 
have  been  happiest — about  the  uselessness  of  most  of 
living.  I'm  not  safe  at  all." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  safe,"  she  whispered. 

With  an  involuntary  and  brutal  movement  he  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  with  a  flame-like  and 
intolerable  passion.  She  made  no  effort  to  avoid  him, 
but  met  his  embrace  with  an  intensity  that  rivalled 
his  own.  When  he  released  her  she  wavered  and  half 
fell  on  a  chair  across  the  low  back  of  which  her  arm 

[194] 


CYTHEREA 

hung  supinely.  The  lightning,  he  thought,  had  struck 
him.  Winding  in  and  through  his  surging,  tempest 
uous  emotion  was  an  objective  realization  of  what  was 
happening  to  him:  this  wasn't  a  comfortable,  super 
ficially  sensual  affair  such  as  he  had  had  with  Anette. 
He  had  seen,  in  steel  mills,  great  shops  with  perspec 
tives  of  tremendous  irresistible  machines,  and  now  he 
had  the  sensation  of  having  been  thrown,  whirling, 
among  them. 

Savina's  head  went  so  far  back  that  her  throat  was 
strained  in  a  white  bow.  He  kissed  her  again,  with 
his  hands  crushing  the  cool  metallic  filaments  of  the 
artificial  flowers  on  her  shoulders.  She  exclaimed, 
"Oh!"  in  a  small  startled  unfamiliar  voice.  This 
would  not  do,  he  told  himself  deliberately,  with  a 
separate  emphasis  on  each  word.  William  Grove 
might  conceivably  come  in  at  any  moment;  and  there 
was  no  hope,  no  possibility,  of  his  wife  quickly  re 
gain-ing  her  balance;  she  was  as  shattered,  as  limply 
weak,  as  though  she  were  in  a  faint.  "Savina,"  he 
said,  using  for  the  first  time  that  name,  "you  must 
get  yourself  together;  I  can't  have  you  exposed  like 
this  to  accident." 

She  smiled  wanly,  in  response,  and  then  sat  upright, 
moving  her  body,  her  arms,  with  an  air  of  insuperable 
weariness.  Her  expression  was  dazed;  but,  instinct 
ively,  she  rearranged  her  slightly  disordered  hair. 

"We  must  find  out  what  has  happened  to  us,"  he 
went  on,  speaking  with  difficulty  -out  of  the  turmoil 

[195] 


CYTHEREA 

of  his  being.  "We  are  not  young,"  he  repeated 
stupidly;  "and  not  foolish.  We  won't  let  ourselves 
be  carried  away  beyond — beyond  return." 

"You  are  so  wise,"  she  assented,  with  an  entire 
honesty  of  intention;  but  her  phrase  mocked  him 
ferociously. 

The  tide  of  his  own  emotion  was  gathering  around 
him  with  the  force  of  a  sea  like  that  of  which  she 
had  already,  vividly,  spoken.  There  was  damned 
little  of  what  could  be  recognized  as  admissible  wis 
dom  in  him.  Instead  of  that  he  was  being  inundated 
by  a  recklessness  of  desire  that  reached  Savina's 
desperate  indifference  to  what,  however  threatening, 
might  overtake  her.  He  couldn't,  he  hadn't  the  in 
clination  to,  do  less.  Reaching  up,  she  drew  her 
fingers  down  his  sleeves-  until  they  rested  in  his  grip 
ping  hands.  Her  palms  clung  to  his,  and  then  she 
broke  away  from  him: 

"I  want  to  be  outraged!"  Her  low  ringing  cry 
seemed  suppressed,  deadened,  as  though  the  damask 
and  florid  gilt  and  rosewood,  now  inexpressibly 
shocked,  had  combined  to  muffle  the  expression,  the 
agony,  of  her  body.  Even  Lee  Randon  was  appalled 
before  the  nakedness  left  by  the  tearing  away  of  every 
thing  imposed  upon  her.  She  should  have  said  that, 
he  realized,  unutterably  sad,  long  ago,  to  William 
Grove.  But,  instead,  she  had  told  him;  and,  whatever 
the  consequences  might  be,  he  must  meet  them.  He 
had  searched  for  this,  for  the  potency  in  which  lay 

[196] 


CYTHEREA 

the  meaning  of  Cytherea,  and  he  had  found  it.  He 
had  looked  for  trouble,  and  it  was  his  in  the  realiza 
tion  alone  that  he  could  not,  now,  go  home  tomorrow 
morning. 

In  his  room  the  tropical  fruits  and  whiskey  and 
cigarettes  were  by  his  bed,  the  percolator  ready  for 
morning;  and,  stopping  in  his  preparations  for  the 
night,  he  mixed  himself  a  drink  and  sat  moodily  over 
it.  What  had  happened  downstairs  seemed,  more 
than  anything  else,  astounding;  Mrs.  Grove,  Savina, 
had  bewildered  him  with  the  power,  the  bitterness,  of 
her  feeling.  At  the  thought  of  her  shaken  with  pas 
sionate  emotion  his  own  nerves  responded  and  the 
racing  of  his  blood  was  audible  in  his  head.  What 
had  happened  he  didn't  regret;  dwelling  on  it,  the 
memory  was  almost  as  sharply  pleasant  as  the  reality ; 
yet  he  wasn't  concerned  with  the  present,  but  of  the 
future — tomorrow. 

He  should,  probably,  get  home  late  in  the  afternoon 
or  in  the  evening;  and  what  he  told  himself  was  that 
he  wouldn't  come  back  to  the  Groves,  to  Savina.  The 
risk,  the  folly,  was  too  great.  Recalling  his  conclu 
sions  about  the  attachments  of  men  of  his  age,  he  had 
no  illusion  about  the  possibly  ideal  character  of  an 
intimacy  with  William  Grove's  wife;  she,  as  well,  had 
illuminated  that  beyond  any  obscurity  of  motive  or 
ultimate  result.  Lee's  mind  shifted  to  a  speculation 
about  the  cause  of  their — their  accident.  No  con- 

[197] 


CYTHEREA 

scious  act,  no  desire,  of  his  had  brought  it  on  them; 
and  it  was  evident  that  no  conscious  wish  of  hers  had 
materialized  their  unrestrainable  kisses.  Savina's 
life,  beyond  question,  must  have  been  largely  spent  in 
hiding,  combatting,  her  secret — the  fact  that  her 
emotion  was  too  great  for  life. 

However,  Lee  Randon  didn't  try  to  tell  himself  that 
no  other  man  had  shared  his  discovery;  indeed,  Savina, 
too,  had  wisely  avoided  that  challenge  to  his  ex 
perience  and  wisdom.  Like  her  he  deliberately  turned 
away  from  the  past;  and,  in  the  natural  chemistry  of 
that  act,  the  provision  for  his  masculine  egotism,  it 
was  dissolved  into  nothingness.  He  was  concentrated 
on  the  incident  in  the  library:  dancing  with  her,  he 
had  held  her  in  a  far  greater,  a  prolonged,  intimacy 
of  contact;  something  in  the  moment,  a  surprising  of 
her  defences,  a  slight  weariness  in  a  struggle  which 
must  often  seem  to  her  unendurable,  had  betrayed  her. 
Nothing,  then,  than  what  had  occurred,  could  have 
been  farther  from  his.  mind ;  he  had  never  connected 
Mrs.  Grove  with  such  a  possibility;  she  hadn't,  the 
truth  was,  at  first  attracted  him  in  that  way.  Now 
he  thought  that  he  had  been  blind  to  have  missed  her 
resemblance  to  Cytherea.  She  was  Cytherea!  This, 
in  a  measure,  accounted  for  him,  since,  with  so  much 
to  consider,  he  badly  needed  an  accounting.  It  wasn't 
simply,  here,  that  he  had  kissed  a  married  woman; 
there  was  nothing  revolutionary  or  specially  threaten 
ing  in  that;  it  was  the  sensation  of  danger,  of  light- 

[198] 


CYTHEREA 

ning,  the  recognition  of  that  profoundly  disturbing 
countenance,  which  filled  him  with  gravity  and  a  de 
termined  plan  of  restraint. 

He  recalled  the  fact  that  both  Peyton  Morris  and 
Mina  had  insisted  that  they  had  not  been  responsible 
for  what  had  overtaken  them;  at  the  time  he  had  not 
credited  this,  he  was  certain  that  some  significant  pre 
liminaries  had  been  indulged  in ;  but  positively  Savina 
and  he  had  been  swept  off  their  feet.  A  sense  of 
helplessness,  of  the  extreme  danger  of  existence, 
permeated  and  weakened  his  opposing  determination 
— he  had  no  choice,  no  freedom  of  will;  nothing 
august,  in  him  or  outside,  had  come  to  his  assistance. 
In  addition  to  this,  he  was — as  in  maturity  he  had 
always  been — without  a  convenient  recognition  of  right 
and  wrong.  What  he  principally  felt  about  Savina 
was  a  helpless  sense  of  tragedy,  that  and  a  hatred  for 
the  world,  for  the  tepid  society,  which  had  no  use  for 
high  passion. 

To  have  kissed  her,  under  the  circumstances,  ap 
peared  to  him  not  only  natural,  but  inevitable;  and 
he  was  suffering  from  no  feeling  of  guilt;  neither 
toward  William  Grove,  in  whose  house  he  was  a 
guest,  nor  to  Fanny — those  widely  heralded  attitudes 
were  largely  a  part  of  a  public  hypocrisy  which  had 
no  place  in  the  attempted  honesty  of  his  thoughts. 
Lee  was  merely  mapping  out  a  course  in  the  direction 
of  worldly  wisdom.  Then,  inconsistently  leaving  that 
promise  of  security,  he  reviewed  every  moment,  every 

[199] 


CYTHEREA 

thrilling  breath,  with  Savina  Grove  after  the  Daven- 
cotts  had  gone:  he  felt,  in  exact  warm  similitude,  her 
body  pressed  against  his,  her  parted  lips;  he  heard  the 
little  escaping  "Ah!"  of  her  fervor. 

He  put  his  glass  down  abruptly  and  tramped  from 
wall  to  wall,  his  unbuttoned  silk  waistcoat  swinging 
about  his  arms.  Lee  Randon  now  cursed  himself, 
he  cursed  Savina,  but  most  of  all  he  cursed  William 
Grove,  sleeping  in  complacent  ignorance  beside  his 
wife.  His  imagination,  aroused  and  then  defrauded, 
became  violent,  wilfully  obscene,  and  his  profanity 
emerged  from  thought  to  rasping  sound.  His  fore 
head,  he  discovered,  was  wet,  and  he  dropped  once 
more  into  the  chair  by  the  laden  tray,  took  a  deep 
drink  from  a  fresh  concoction.  "This  won't  do,"  he 
said;  "it's  crazy."  And  he  resumed  the  comforting 
belief  that  tomorrow  would  be  different:  he'd  say 
good-bye  to  the  Groves  together  and,  in  four  hours, 
he'd  be  back  in  Eastlake.  The  children,  if  he  took 
a  late  train,  would  be  in  bed,  and  Fanny,  with  her 
feet  on  the  stool,  engaged  with  her  fancy  work. 

Then  his  revolving  thoughts  took  him  back  to  the 
unanswered  mystery  of  what,  actually,  had  happened 
to  Savina  and  him.  He  lost  her  for  Cytherea,  he 
lost  Cytherea  in  her;  the  two,  the  immobile  doll  and 
the  woman  torn  with  vitality,  merged  to  confound  him. 
In  the  consideration  of  Savina  and  himself,  he  dis 
covered  that  they,  too,  were  alike;  yet,  while  he  had 
looked  for  a  beauty,  a  quality,  without  a  name,  a 

[200]  ' 


CYTHEREA 

substance,  Savina  wanted  a  reality  every  particle  of 
which  she  had  experienced  and  achingly  knew.  He, 
more  or  less,  was  troubled  by  a  vision,  but  her  neces 
sity  was  recognizable  in  flesh.  There,  it  might  be 
again,  she  was  more  fortunate,  stronger,  superior.  It 
didn't  matter. 

No  inclination  to  sleep  drugged  the  activity  of  his 
mind  or  promised  him  the  release,  the  medicine,  of 
a  temporary  oblivion.  He  had  a  recurrence  of  the 
rebellious  spirit,  in  which  he  wondered  if  Grove  did 
sleep  in  the  same  room  with  Savina.  And  then 
increasingly  he  got  what  he  called  a  hold  on  himself. 
All  that  troubled  him  seemed  to  lift,  to  melt  into  a 
state  where  the  hopeless  was  irradiated  with  tender 
memories.  His  mood  changed  to  a  pervasive  melan 
choly  in  which  he  recalled  the  lost  possibilities  of  his 
early  ambitions,  the  ambitions  that,  without  form  or 
encouragement,  had  gone  down  before  definite  develop 
ments.  When  he  spoke  of  these,  tentatively,  to  Fanny, 
she  always  replied  serenely  that  she  was  thankful 
for  him  as  he  was,  she  would  not  have  liked  him  to 
be  anything  queer. 

But  if  he  had  met  Savina  first,  and  married  her, 
his  career  would  have  been  something  else  entirely; 
now,  probably— so  fiercely  their  combined  flame  would 
have  burned — it  would  be  over.  However,  during  its 
course — he  drew  in  a  long  audible  breath.  It  was  no 
good  thinking  of  that!  He  completed  his  prepara 
tions  for  the  night;  but  he  still  lingered,  some  of  the 

[201] 


CYTHEREA 

drink  remained.  Lee  was  glad  that  he  had  grown 
quieter,  reflective,  middle-aged;  it  was  absurd,  un 
dignified,  for  him  to  imitate  the  transports  of  the 
young.  It  pleased  him,  though,  to  realize  that  he 
wasn't  done,  extinguished,  yet;  he  might  play  court 
tennis — it  wasn't  as  violent  as  racquets  or  squash — 
and  get  back  a  little  of  his  lapsed  agility;  better  still, 
he'd  ride  more,  take  three  days  a  week,  he  could  well 
afford  to,  instead  of  only  Saturday  and  holidays  in 
the  country. 

It  was  a  mistake  to  disparage  continually  the  life, 
the  pleasures  and  friends,  he  had — the  friends  he  had 
gathered  through  long  arduous  years  of  effort.  He 
must  grow  more  familiar  with  Helena  and  Gregory, 
too;  no  one  had  handsomer  or  finer  children.  And 
there  was  Fanny — for  one  friend  of  his  she  had  ten; 
she  was  universally  liked  and  admired.  Lee  was,  at 
last,  in  bed;  but  sleep  continued  to  evade  him.  He 
didn't  fall  asleep,  but  sank  into  a  waking  dose;  his 
mind  was  clear,  but  not  governed  by  his  conscious 
will;  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  no  Savina  Grove, 
but  only  Cytherea;  her  smile,  her  fascination,  every 
where  followed  him.  A  damned  funny  business,  life! 
At  times  its  secret,  the  meaning  of  love,  was  almost 
clear,  and  then,  about  to  be  freed  by  knowledge,  his 
thoughts  would  break,  grow  confused,  and  leave  him 
still  baffled. 

Lee  Randon  was  startled  to  find  the  brightness  of 
morning  penetrating  his  eyes ;  ready  for  his  bath,  with 

[202] 


CYTHEREA 

the  percolator  choking  and  bubbling  in  the  next  room, 
he  rehearsed,  reaffirmed,  all  that  he  had  decided  the 
night  before.  No  one  was  with  him  at  the  breakfast 
table  elaborate  with  repousse  silver  and  embroidered 
linen  and  iced  fruit;  but,  returning  upstairs,  he  saw 
Savina  in  her  biscuit-colored  suit  in  the  library. 
" William  had  to  go  to  Washington,"  she  told  him; 
"he  left  his  regrets."  She  was,  Lee  perceived,  almost 
haggard,  with  restless  hands;  but  she  didn't  avoid 
his  gaze.  She  stood  by  the  table,  one  hand,  gloved, 
slightly  behind  her  on  it.  Bending  forward  he  kissed 
her  more  intently,  more  passionately,  more  wholly, 
than  ever  before. 

"I  hadn't  meant  to  do  that,"  he  said;  but  his  speech 
was  only  mechanical,  as  though,  when  he  had  once 
made  it  up,  it  discharged  itself,  in  a  condition  where 
it  was  no  longer  valid,  in  spite  of  him.  Savina 
replied  with  a  silent  smile.  Her  drawn  appearance 
had  gone;  she  was  animated,  sparkling,  with  vitality; 
even  her  body  seemed  fuller. 

"We  shall  have  a  long  unbroken  day  together,"  she 
told  him;  "I  have  to  go  out  for  an  hour,  and  then  it 
will  begin,  here,  I  think,  with  lunch." 

"I  ought  to  be  back  in  Eastlake,"  he  confessed. 

"Don't  think  of  that  till  it  comes.  Eastlake  has 
had  you  a  long  time,  compared  with  a  day.  But 
there  are  days  and  days."  They  kissed  each  other. 
"I'll  go  now."  She  kissed  Lee.  "Lunch  will  be  at 

[203] 


CYTHEREA 

two."  He  kissed  her.  He  didn't  leave  the  library 
until  a  maid  announced  that  lunch  was  ready  and  the 
fact  of  her  return.  At  the  table  they  spoke  but  little ; 
Lee  Randon  was  enveloped  in  a  luxurious  feeling — 
where  Savina  was  concerned — of  security;  there  was 
no  need  to  hurry;  the  day  lengthened  out  into  the 
night  and  an  infinity  of  happy  minutes  and  op 
portunities.  They  discussed,  however,  what  to  do 
with  it. 

"I'd  like  to  go  out  to  dinner,"  she  decided;  "and 
then  a  theatre,  but  nothing  more  serious  than  a  spec 
tacle:  any  one  of  the  Follies.  I  am  sick  of  Carnegie 
Hall  and  pianists  and  William's  solemn  box  at  the 
Opera ;  and  afterwards  we'll  go  back  to  that  cafe  and 
drink  champagne  and  dance." 

That,  he  declared,  with  a  small  inner  sinking  at 
the  thought  of  Fanny,  would  be  splendid.  "And  this 
afternoon — ?" 

"We'll  be  together." 

They  returned  to  the  library — more  secluded  from 
servants  and  callers  than  the  rooms  on  the  lower 
floor — where,  at  one  end  of  the  massive  lounge,  they 
smoked  and  Savina  talked.  "I  hardly  went  to  sleep 
at  all,"  she  admitted;  "I  thought  of  you  every  second. 
Do  you  think  your  wife  would  like  me?"  She  asked 
the  vain  question  which  no  woman  in  her  situation 
seemed  able  to  avoid. 

"Of  course,"  he  lied  heroically. 

"I  want  her  to,  although  I  can't,  somehow,  con- 
[204] 


CYTHEREA 

nect  you  with  her;  I  can't  see  you  married.  No  doubt 
because  I  don't  want  to;  it  makes  me  wretched."  She 
half  turned  in  his  arms,  pressed  hard  against  him,  and 
plunged  her  gaze  into  his. 

"It  often  seems  strange  to  me,"  he  admitted,  caught 
in  the  three-fold  difficulty  of  the  truth,  his  feeling  for 
her,  and  a  complete  niceness  in  whatever  touched 
Fanny.  He  attempted  to  explain.  "Everything 
about  my  home  is  perfect,  but,  at  times,  and  I  can't 
make  out  why,  it  doesn't  seem  mine.  It  might,  from 
the  way  I  feel,  belong  to  another  man — the  house 
and  Fanny  and  the  children.  I  stand  in  it  all  as 
though  I  had  suddenly  waked  from  a  dream,  as  though 
what  were  around  me  had  lasted  somehow  from  the 
dream  into  life."  He  repeated  to  her  the  process  of 
his  thoughts,  feelings,  at  once  so  familiar  and  in 
explicable. 

She  wasn't,  he  found,  deeply  interested  in  his  ex 
planation;  she  was  careless  of  anything  but  the  im 
mediate  present.  Savina  never  mentioned  William 
Grove.  Animated  by  countless  tender  inventive  ex 
pressions  of  her  passion,  she  gave  the  impression  of 
listening  to  the  inflections  of  his  voice  rather  than 
attending,  considering,  its  meanings.  She  was  more 
fully  surrendered  to  the  situation  than  he.  The 
disorganized  fragments  of  a  hundred  ideas  and  hints 
poured  in  rapid  succession,  back  of  his  dominating 
emotion,  through  Lee's  brain.  He  lost  himself  only 
in  waves — the  similitude  to  the  sea  persisted — regular, 

[205] 


CYTHEREA 

obliterating,  but  separate.  Savina  was  far  out  in 
a  tideless  deep  that  swept  the  solidity  of  no  land. 

She  was  plastically  what  he  willed;  blurred,  drunk, 
with  sensation,  she  sat  clasping  rigidly  the  edge  of  his 
coat.  But  his  will,  he  discovered,  was  limited:  the 
surges  of  physical  desire,  rising  and  inundating,  sat 
urating  him,  broke  continually  and  left  him  with  the 
partly-formed  whirling  ideas.  He  named,  to  himself, 
the  thing  that  hung  over  them;  he  considered  it  and 
put  it  away;  he  deferred  the  finality  of  their  emotion. 
In  this  he  was  inferior,  he  became  even  slightly 
ridiculous — they  couldn't  continue  kissing  each  other 
with  the  same  emphasis  hour  after  hour,  and  the  em 
phasis  could  not  be  indefinitely  multiplied;  rather 
than  meet  the  crescendo  he  drew  into  his  region  of 
mental  obscurity. 

Lee  had  to  do  this,  he  reminded  himself,  in  view 
of  Savina's  utter  surrender:  he  was  responsible  for 
whatever  happened.  Even  here  his  infernal  queerness 
— that  the  possession  of  the  flesh  wasn't  what  pri 
marily  moved  him — was  pursuing  him:  a  peculiarity, 
he  came  to  think,  dangerously  approaching  the  ab 
normal.  In  addition  to  that,  however,  he  was  not 
ready,  prepared,  to  involve  his  future;  for  that,  with 
Savina  Grove,  was  most  probable  to  follow.  Fanny 
was  by  no  means  absent  from  his  mind,  his  wife  and 
certain  practical  realities.  And,  as  he  had  told  him 
self  before,  he  was  not  a  seducer.  What  adventures 
he  had  accepted  had  been  the  minor  experiments  of 

[206] 


CYTHEREA 

his  restlessness,  and  they  all  ended  in  the  manner 
that  had  finished  him  with  Anette,  in  dissatisfaction 
and  a  sense  of  waste. 

Savina  stirred  and  sighed.  "I  must  ring  for  tea," 
she  said  regretfully;  and,  while  the  servant  arranged 
the  pots  and  decanters  and  pitchers,  the  napkins  and 
filled  dishes,  Lee  paced  up  and  down,  smoking. 
When  they  were  again  alone  her  fingers  stole  under 
his  arm: 

"I  adore  you  for — for  everything."  She  had 
evaded  the  purpose  of  her  speech.  He  wondered, 
with  the  exasperation  of  his  over-wrought  physical 
suspense,  if  she  did.  His  ravishment  had  suffered  a 
sharp  natural  decline  reflected  in  a  mental  gloom. 
For  the  moment  he  desired  nothing,  valued  nothing. 
And,  in  this  mood,  he  became  talkative;  he  poured 
a  storm  of  pessimistic  observation  over  Savina;  and 
she  listened  with  a  rapt,  transported,  attention.  It 
stopped  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  in  a  silence 
coincident  with  dusk.  The  room  slowly  lost  its  sombre 
color  and  the  sense  of  the  confining  walls;  it  became 
grey  and  apparently  limitless;  as  monotonous,  Lee 
Randon  thought,  as  life.  He  was  disturbed  by  a  new 
feeling:  that  perversely,  trivially,  he  had  spoiled  what 
should  have  been  a  priceless  afternoon.  It  would 
never  come  back;  what  a  fool  he  had  been  to  waste 
in  aimless  talk  any  of  the  few  hours  which  together 
they  owned. 

He  whispered  this  to  Savina,  in  his  arms;  but  she 
[207] 


CYTHEREA 

would  permit  no  criticism  of  him.  It  was  time,  she 
discovered,  for  them  to  dress  for  their  party:  "I  don't 
want  you  to  go.  Why  can't  you  be  with  me?  But 
then,  the  servants !  Lee,  I  am  going  to  die  when  you 
leave.  Tell  me,  how  can  I  live,  what  am  I  to  do, 
without  you?"  Since  no  satisfactory  reply  to  that 
was  possible,  he  stopped  her  troubled  voice  with  a 
kiss.  It  was  remarkable  how  many  they  had  ex 
changed. 

He  had  the  feeling,  the  hope,  that,  with  nothing 
irrevocable  consummated,  their  parting  would  be 
easier;  but  he  began  to  lose  that  comfortable  as 
surance.  Again  in  his  room,  in  the  heavy  choking 
folds  of  velvet  draperies,  he  was  grave;  the  mere  ex 
citation  of  the  night  before  had  gone.  What  was  this, 
he  asked  himself,  that  he  had  got  into?  What  had 
Cytherea  to  do  with  it?  Ungallantly  the  majority  of 
his  thoughts  were  engaged  with  the  possibility,  the 
absolute  necessity,  of  escape.  By  God,  he  must  get 
out  of  it,  or  rather,  get  it  out  of  him!  But  it  wasn't 
too  late ;  he  could  even  finish  the  day,  this  delight,  with 
safety.  Savina  would  recover — she  had  already 
thanked  him  for  his  self-control. 

It  was  fortunate  that  she  was  a  woman  of  distinc 
tion,  of  responsibilities,  with  a  delicate  habit  of  mind ; 
another  might  have  brought  disaster,  followed  him  to 
Eastlake.  He  recalled  a  story  of  George  Sand  tearing 
off  her  bodice  before  the  house  of  a  man  she  loved. 
Yet  .  .  .  why  hadn't  he  gone  quietly  away,  early  in 

[208] 


CYTHEREA 

the  morning,  before  Savina  was  up  ?  He  was  appalled 
at  the  depths  to  which  he  had  fallen,  the  ignominious 
appearance  that  interrogated  him  from  the  pier-glass; 
Lee  saw  himself  in  the  light  of  a  coward — a  cheap, 
safe  sensation-maker.  Nothing  was  more  contempti 
ble.  Damn  it  to  hell,  what  was  he?  Where  was  he? 
Either  he  ought  to  go  home  or  not,  and  the  not  carried 
the  fullest  possible  significance.  But  he  didn't  want 
to  do  one  or  the  other — he  wanted  Cytherea,  or  Savina, 
on  some  absurd  impracticable  plane,  and  Fanny  too. 
Why  couldn't  he  go  home  when  home  was  uppermost 
in  his  thoughts  and  do  something  else  when  it  wasn't? 
Did  the  fact  that  Fanny  might  happen  to  want  him 
annul  all  his  liberty  in  living;  or,  in  place  of  that, 
were  they,  in  spirit  and  body,  one? 

It  was  inevitable  to  the  vacillating  state  of  his  being 
that,  finding  Savina  in  an  exceptionally  engaging 
black  dress  with  floating  sleeves  of  sheer  lace  and  a 
string  of  rare  pearls,  he  should  forget  all  his  doubts  in 
the  pleasure  of  their  intimacy.  Even  now,  in  response 
to  his  gaze,  her  face  lost  its  usual  composure  and  be 
came  pinched,  stricken,  with  feeling.  Lee  Randon 
was  possessed  by  a  recklessness  that  hardened  him  to 
everything  but  the  present  moment:  such  times  were 
few  in  existence,  hours  of  vivid  living  which  alone 
made  the  dull  weight  of  years  supportable.  This  be 
longed  to  Savina  and  him;  they  were  accountable  only 
to  each  other.  It  was  a  sensation  like  the  fortunate 

[209] 


CYTHEREA 

and  exhilarating  effect  of  exactly  the  right  amount  of 
wine.  The  emotion  that  flooded  them  had  freed  Lee 
from  responsibility;  sharpening  one  set  of  perceptions, 
it  had  obliterated  the  others,  creating  a  spirit  of  holi 
day  from  which  nothing  prosaic,  utilitarian,  should 
detract. 

They  hadn't  yet  decided  where  to  go  for  dinner; 
and,  drawing  aside  into  a  small  reception  room  to 
embrace  and  consider,  they  selected  the  Lafayette,  be 
cause  its  Continental  air  assisted  the  illusion  of  their 
escape  from  all  that  was  familiar  and  perfunctory. 
Their  table,  by  a  railing  overlooking  the  sweep  of  the 
salle  a  manger,  was  precisely  placed  for  their  happi 
ness.  It  was  so  narrow  that  the  heels  of  Savina's 
slippers  were  sharply  pressed  into  his  insteps;  when 
her  hand  fell  forward  it  rested  on  his.  Lee  ordered  a 
great  deal,  of  which  very  little  was  eaten;  the  hors 
d'oeuvre  appeared  and  vanished,  followed  by  the  soup 
and  an  entree;  a  casserole  spread  the  savory  odor  of 
its  contents  between  them ;  the  salad  was  crisply,  palely 
green,  and  ignored;  and,  before  it  seemed  humanly 
possible,  he  had  his  cigar  and  was  stirring  the  French 
coffee. 

"Shall  we  be  late  for  the  theatre?"  he  asked  indif 
ferently. 

"I  haven't  the  least  interest  in  it,"  Savina  assured 
him;  "I  can't  imagine  why  we  bought  the  seats.  Why 
did  we,  Lee,  when  we  have  each  other?" 

"Our  own  private  Folly."     He  smiled  at  her. 
[210] 


CYTHEREA 

"Not  that,"  she  reproved  him;  "I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  it  in  a  small  way.  Why,  it  will  be  all  I'll  ever 
have — I  shall  never  think  of  anyone  else  like  this 
again;  and  you'll  go  back,  you'll  go  away.  But  I 
hope  you  won't  forget  me,  not  at  once — you  must  keep 
me  in  your  heart  for  a  little." 

"I'll  never  be  able  to  get  you  out,"  he  declared. 

"You  want  to,  then,  and  I  am — "  She  lost  control 
of  herself  as  though  she  had  passed  into  a  hypnosis, 
uniquely  frozen  with  passion,  incapable  of  movement, 
of  the  accommodation  of  her  sight;  her  breathing  was 
slow,  almost  imperceptible  in  its  shallowness.  "I  am 
a  part  of  you,"  Savina  went  on  when  she  had  recov 
ered.  "It  would  kill  me  if  I  weren't.  But  it  does 
mean  something."  Her  heel  cut  until  he  thought  he 
was  bleeding. 

"What?"  he  asked,  through  the  thin  azure  smoke 
of  the  cigar.  She  shook  her  head  contentedly: 

"I  don't  care;  I  have — now,  anyway — what  I  wish, 
what  I've  always  wished  for — you.  I  didn't  know  it 
was  you  right  away,  how  could  I?  Not  even  when 
we  had  tea,  and  talked  about  Mina  and  your  young 
Morris,  that  first  afternoon.  It  was  the  next  day  be 
fore  I  understood.  Why  wasn't  it  long  long  ago,  when 
I  was  a  girl,  twelve  years  old?  Yes,  quite  that  early. 
Isn't  it  queer,  Lee,  how  I  have  been  troubled  by  love? 
It  bothers  hardly  anyone  else,  it  scarcely  touches  the 
rest.  There  is  a  lot  of  talk  about  it,  but,  all  the  while, 
people  detest  it.  They  are  always  wearing  dresses 

[211] 


CYTHEREA 

and  pretentions  they  can't  afford  to  have  mussed.  It 
— I  am  still  talking  of  love,  Lee  darling — breaks  up 
their  silly  society  and  morals  .  .  .  like  a  strong  light 
thrown  on  something  shabby." 

Once  more  he  had  the  feeling  that,  before  the  actu 
ality  of  Savina's  tragic  necessity,  his  own  speculations 
were  merely  visionary,  immaterial;  yet  he  tried  to  put 
them  into  words,  to  explain,  so  far  as  he  was  able, 
what  it  was  in  him  that  was  hers.  But  he  did  this 
omitting,  perhaps,  the  foundation  of  all  that  he 
was  trying  to  say — he  didn't  speak  of  Cytherea.  He 
avoided  putting  the  doll  into  words  because  he  could 
think  of  none  that  would  make  his  meaning,  his 
attachment,  clear.  Lee  couldn't,  very  well,  across  the 
remnants  of  dinner,  admit  to  Savina  that  a  doll  bought 
out  of  a  confectioner's  window  on.  Fifth  Avenue  so 
deeply  influenced  him.  He  hadn't  lost  Cytherea  in 
Savina  so  much  as,  vitalized,  he  had  found  her.  And, 
while  he  had  surrendered  completely  to  the  woman  and 
emotion,  at  the  same  time  the  immaterial  aspect  of  his 
search,  if  he  could  so  concretely  define  it,  persisted. 
The  difference  between  Savina  and  himself  was  this: 
while  she  was  immersed,  obliterated,  satisfied,  in  her 
passion,  a  part  of  him,  however  small,  stayed  aside. 
It  didn't  control  him,  but  simply  went  along,  like  a 
diminutive  and  wondering  child  he  had  by  the 
hand. 

Cytherea,  at  this  moment,  would  be  softly  illumin 
ated  by  the  shifting  glow  of  the  fire  and,  remote  in  her 

[212] 


CYTHEREA 

magical  perspective,  would  seem  at  the  point  of  jnov- 
ing,  of  beckoning  for  him_with  her  lifted  hand. 
~''What  were  you  seeing  in  the  smoke?"   Savina 
asked;  and  he  replied  with  an  adequate  truth,  "You." 

"Why  not  just  look  at  me,  then,  instead  of  staring?" 

"I  see  you  everywhere." 

"Adorable,"  she  whispered. 

No  such  name,  no  terms  of  endearment,  occurred  to 
him  for  her;  why,  he  didn't  know;  but  they  had  no 
place  in  his  present  situation.  He  had  to  think  of 
Savina  as  removed  from  whatever  had  described  and 
touched  other  special  women.  The  words  which  had 
always  been  the  indispensable  property  of  such  affairs 
were  now  distasteful  to  him.  They  seemed  to  have  a 
smoothly  false,  a  brassy,  ring;  while  he  was  fully, 
even  gaily,  committed,  he  had  a  necessity  to  make  his 
relationship  with  Savina  Grove  wholly  honest.  As  he 
paid  the  account  she  asked  him  if  he  were  rich. 

"Your  husband  wouldn't  think  so,"  he  replied;  "yet 
I  am  doing  well  enough;  I  can  afford  dinner  and  the 
theatre." 

"I  wish  you  had  a  very  great  deal  of  money." 

"Why?"     He  gazed  at  her  curiously. 

"It's  so  useful,"  Savina  told  him  generally;  but 
that,  he  felt,  was  not  completely  what  was  in  her  mind. 
"What  I  have,"  she  went  on,  "is  quite  separate  from 
William's.  It  is  my  mother's  estate." 

"My  brother,  Daniel,  has  done  very  well  in  Cuba," 
Lee  commented.  Savina  was  interested: 

[213] 


CYTHEREA 

"I  have  never  been  there;  cooler  climates  are  sup 
posed  to  suit  my  heart  better ;  but  I  know  I  should  love 
it — the  close  burning  days  and  intense  nights." 

"Daniel  tells  me  there's  usually  the  trade  wind  at 
night."  His  voice  reflected  his  lack  of  concern. 

"I  have  a  feeling,"  she  persisted,  "that  I  am  more  of 
Havana  than  I  am,  for  example,  of  Islesboro.  Some 
thing  in  the  tropics  and  the  people,  the  Spanish! 
Those  dancing  girls  in  gorgeous  shawls,  they  haven't 
any  clothes  underneath;  and  that  nakedness,  the  vio 
lence  of  their  passions,  the  danger  and  the  knives  and 
the  windows  with  iron  bars,  stir  me.  It's  all  so  dif 
ferent  from  New  York.  I  want  to  burn  up  with  a  red 
flower  in  my  hair  and  not  cool  into  stagnation." 

They  were  in  her  closed  automobile,  where  it  was 
faintly  scented  by  roses  yellow  and  not  crimson.  She 
sat  upright,  withdrawn  from  him,  with  her  hands 
clenched  in  her  lap.  How  she  opposed  every  quality 
of  Mina  Raff's;  what  a  contradiction  the  two  women, 
equally  vital,  presented.  And  Fanny,  perhaps  no  less 
forceful,  was  still  another  individual.  Lee  Randon 
was  appalled  at  the  power  lying  in  the  fragile  persons 
of  women.  It  controlled  the  changeless  and  fateful 
elements  of  life ;  while  the  strength  of  men,  it  occurred 
to  him  further,  was  concerned  with  such  secondary 
affairs  as  individual  ambitions  and  a  struggle  eter 
nally  condemned  to  failure. 

Savina  relaxed,  every  instinct  and  nerve  turned  to 
ward  him,  but  they  were  at  the  theatre. 

[214] 


CYTHEREA 

The  performance  had  been  on,  an  usher  told  them, 
for  almost  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  Their  seats 
were  in  the  fifth  row,  the  middle;  and  there  was  an 
obscured  resentful  stirring  as  they  took  their  places. 
Plunged  into  darkness,  their  hands  and  shoulders  and 
knees  met.  Savina,  scarcely  above  her  breath,  said 
"Ah!"  uncontrollably;  she  was  so  charged  with  emo 
tion  that  her  body  seemed  to  vibrate,  a  bewildering 
warmness  stole  through  him  from  her;  and  once  more, 
finally,  he  sank  into  questionless  depths.  The  bright 
ness  of  the  stage,  at  first,  had  no  more  form  nor 
meaning  than  the  whirling  pattern  of  a  kaleidoscope, 
against  which  the  people  around  him  were  unsubstan 
tial  silhouettes,  blind  to  the  ardor  that  merged  Savina 
and  him  into  one  sentient  form  alone  in  a  world  of 
shadows. 

The  spectacle  on  the  stage,  Russian  in  motive,  was 
set  in  harmonized  barbaric  color — violent  movements 
under  a  diffused  light:  in  the  background  immobile 
peasant-like  figures  held  tall  many-branched  candle 
sticks;  there  were  profane  gold  mitres,  vivid  stripes 
and  morocco  leather;  cambric  chemises  slipping  from 
breasts  and  the  revelation  of  white  thighs.  It  floated, 
like  a  vision  of  men's  desire  realized  in  beautiful  and 
morbid  symbols,  above  the  darkened  audience;  it  took 
what,  in  the  throng,  was  imperfect,  fragmentary,  and 
spent,  but  still  strong,  brutal,  formless,  and  converted 
it  into  a  lovely  and  sterile  pantomime.  Yet  there  was 

[215] 


CYTHEREA 

no  sterility  in  what  had,  primarily,  animated  it;  the 
change,  it  seemed,  had  been  from  use  to  ornament, 
from  purpose  to  a  delight  with  no  issue  beyond  that. 
Over  it  there  hung,  for  Lee  Randon,  the  pale  radiance 
of  Cytherea. 

Other  visions  and  spectacles  followed,  they  melted 
one  into  the  next,  sensations  roused  by  the  flexible 
plaited  thongs  of  desire.  Lee,  stupefied  in  the  heavy 
air  of  his  own  sensuality,  saw  the  pictorial  life  on  the 
stage  as  an  accompaniment,  the  visualization,  of  his 
obsession.  It  was  over  suddenly,  with  a  massing  of 
form  and  sound ;  Lee  and  Savina  Grove  were  pitilessly 
drowned  in  light.  Crushed  together  in  the  crowded, 
slowly  emptying  aisle,  her  pliable  body,  under  its 
wrap,  followed  his  every  movement. 

On  the  street,  getting  into  the  automobile,  she  di 
rected  Adamson  to  drive  through  the  park.  "I  don't 
want  to  go  to  the  Malmaison,"  she  told  Lee.  Her  un 
gloved  fingers  worked  a  link  from  his  cuff  and  her 
hand  crept  up  his  arm.  The  murmur  of  her  voice 
was  ceaseless,  like  a  low  running  and  running  over 
melodious  keys.  Then,  in  a  tone  no  louder,  but 
changed,  unexpected,  she  said: 

"Lee,  I  love  you." 

It  startled  him;  its  effect  was  profound — now  that 
it  had  been  said  he  was  completely  delivered  to  his 
gathering  sense  of  the  inevitable.  It  secured,  like  a 
noose,  all  his  intentions;  he  was  neither  glad  nor  sorry; 
what  was  the  use?  His  own  feeling — if  this  were 

[216] 


CYTHEREA 

love  and  what  love  was — eluded  him.  Above  every 
other  recognition,  though,  was  a  consciousness  of  im 
pending  event.  What  happened  now,  in  the  car 
rapidly  approaching  Central  Park,  was  unimportant, 
without  power  to  contain  him  in  its  moment.  They 
turned  in  at  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  entrance:  through 
the  glass  there  was  a  shifting  panorama  of  black 
branches,  deserted  walks  and  benches  and  secretive 
water.  He  saw  vaguely  the  Belvedere,  the  Esplanade 
fountain,  and  the  formal  length  of  the  Mall,  together 
with — flung  against  the  sky — the  multitudinous  lighted 
windows  of  Central  Park  West,  the  high  rippling 
shimmer  of  the  monumental  lifted  electric  signs  on 
Broadway.  Other  cars  passed,  swift  and  soundless, 
he  saw  their  occupants  and  then  they  were  gone:  an 
aged  man  whose  grey  countenance  might  have  been 
moulded  in  sand  with  a  frigid  trained  nurse;  a  couple 
desperately  embracing  in  a  taxi-cab;  a  knot  of  chat 
tering  women  in  dinner  dresses  and  open  furs ;  another 
alone,  painted,  at  once  hard  and  conciliatory,  hurrying 
to  an  appointment. 

The  tension,  his  suspense,  increased  until  he  thought 
it  must  burst  out  the  windows.  Between  the  shudders 
and  the  kissing  he  kept  wondering  when.  ...  It  was 
Savina,  at  the  speaking-tube,  who  commanded  their 
return.  They  left  the  Park  for  Fifth  Avenue,  Sixty- 
sixth  Street.  Lee  got  out,  but  she  didn't  follow.  He 
waited  expectantly.  The  night  had  grown  very  much 
colder.  Why,  in  the  name  of  God,  didn't  she  come? 

[217] 


CYTHEREA 

r"In  a  moment,"  he  heard  her  say  faintly.  But  when 
she  moved  it  was  with  decision;  there  was  no  hesita 
tion  in  her  manner  of  mounting  the  stone  steps.  The 
maid  came  forward  as  they  entered,  first  to  help  Savina, 
and  then  to  take  Lee's  hat  and  coat  and  stick.  Savina 
turned  to  him,  holding  out  her  hand,  speaking  in  a 
high  steady  voice: 

"Thank  you  very  much — wasn't  it  nice? — and 
good-night."  Without  another  word,  giving  him  no 
opportunity  to  speak,  to  reply,  she  turned  neither  hur 
ried  nor  slow  to  the  stairway. 

He  was  dumfounded,  and  showed  it,  he  was  sure,  in 
the  stupidity  of  his  fixed  gesture  of  surprise.  The 
emotion  choked  in  his  throat  was  bitter  with  a  sense  of 
ill-treatment.  To  cover  his  confusion,  he  searched 
obviously  through  his  pockets  for  a  cigarette  case 
which  he  had  left,  he  knew,  in  his  overcoat.  Then, 
when  the  servant  had  retired,  he  softly  cursed.  How 
ever,  the  bitterness,  his  anger,  were  soon  lost  in  bewil 
derment;  that,  with  the  appearance  of  resolving  itself 
into  a  further  mystery,  carried  him  up  to  his  room. 
With  a  mixed  drink  on  a  dressing-case,  he  wandered 
aimlessly  around,  his  brain  occupied  with  one  ques 
tion,  one  possibility. 

Piece  by  piece,  at  long  intervals,  he  removed  his 
clothes,  found  his  pajamas  and  dressing-gown,  and 
washed.  The  difink  he  discovered  later  untouched 
and  he  consumed  it  almost  at  a  gulp.  Lee  poured  out 
another,  and  a  third;  but  they  had  no  effect  on  him. 

[218] 


CYTHEREA 

In  spite  of  them  he  suffered  a  mild  collapse  of  the 
nerves;  his  hands  were  without  feeling,  at  once  like 
marble  and  wet  with  sweat;  his  heart  raced.  A  per 
vading  weariness  and  discouragement  followed  this. 
He  was  in  a  hellish  mess,  he  told  himself  fiercely. 
The  bravado  of  the  words  temporarily  gave  him  more 
spirit;  yet  there  was  nothing  he  could  do  but  go  to  bed. 
Nothing  else  had  been  even  hinted  at;  he  turned  off 
the  lights  and  opened  the  windows.  Flares  of  bright 
ness  continued  to  pass  before  his  eyes,  and,  disinclined 
to  the  possibilities  of  sleep,  he  propped  himself  up 
with  an  extra  pillow.  Then,  illogically,  he  wondered 
if  he  had  locked  the  door;  at  the  instant  of  rising  to 
find  out,  he  restrained  himself — if,  subconsciously,  he 
had,  chance  and  not  he  had  worked;  for  or  against 
him,  what  did  it  matter? 

He  looked  at  the  illuminated  dial  of  his  watch;  the 
hands,  the  numerals,  greenly  phosphorescent,  were 
sharp;  it  was  midnight.  After  apparently  an  inter 
minable  wait  he  looked  again — six  minutes  past 
twelve.  The  rumble  of  an  elevated  train  approached, 
hung  about  the  room,  and  receded.  Death  could  be 
no  more  dragging  than  this.  Why,  then,  didn't  he 
fall  asleep?  Lee  went  over  and  over  every  inflection 
of  Savina's  final  words  to  him;  in  them  he  tried,  but 
vainly,  to  find  encouragement,  promise,  any  decision 
or  invitation.  What,  in  the  short  passage  from  the 
automobile  to  the  house,  could  have  so  wholly 
changed,  frozen,  her?  Had  she,  at  that  late  oppor- 

[219] 


CYTHEREA 

tunity,  remembering  the  struggle,  the  tragic  unrelent 
ing  need,  to  keep  herself  aloof  from  passion,  once  more 
successfully  fled  ?  Was  she — he  was  almost  dozing — 
Cytherea,  the  unobtainable? 

He  woke,  stirred,  convulsively:  it  was  after  one 
o'clock  now.  The  craving  for  a  cigarette  finally 
moved  him ;  and,  in  the  dark,  he  felt  around  for  those, 
the  Dimitrinos,  on  the  tray.  The  cigarette  at  an  end, 
he  sank  back  on  the  pillows,  deciding  that  he  must 
take  the  earliest  train  possible  toward  Eastlake.  He 
had  missed  a  directors'  meeting  today,  and  there  was 
another  tomorrow  that  he  must  attend,  at  his  office. 
Then  he  grew  quieter;  the  rasping  of  his  nerves  ceased; 
it  was  as  though,  suddenly,  they  had  all  been  loos 
ened,  the  strung  wires  unturned.  What  a  remark 
able  adventure  he  had  been  through;  not  a  detail  of  it 
would  ever  fade  from  his  memory — a  secret  allevia 
tion  for  advancing  old  age,  impotence.  And  this,  the 
most  romantic  occurrence  of  his  life,  had  happened 
when  he  was  middle-aged,  forty-seven  and  worse,  to 
be  exact.  He  looked  again  at  his  watch,  but  now  only 
from  a  lingering  uncertain  curiosity.  It  was  five 
minutes  of  two. 

The  present  peace  that  settled  over  him  seemed  the 
most  valuable  thing  life  had  to  offer;  it  was  not  like 
the  end  of  effort,  but  resembled  a  welcome  truce,  a 
rest  with  his  force  unimpaired,  from  which  he  would 
wake  to  the  tonic  winter  realities  of  tomorrow.  An 
early  train — 

[220] 


CYTHEREA 

In  the  act  of  dropping,  half  asleep,  into  the  posi 
tion  of  slumber,  he  halted  sharply,  propped  up  on  an 
elbow.  A  sense  invaded  him  of  something  unusual, 
portentous,  close  by.  There  wasn't  a  sound,  a  flicker 
of  audible  movement,  a  break  in  the  curtain  of  dark; 
yet  he  was  breathless  in  a  strained  oppressive  attention. 
It  was  impossible  to  say  whether  his  disturbance  came 
from  within  or  without,  whether  it  was  in  his  pound 
ing  blood  or  in  the  room  around  him.  Then  he  heard 
a  soft  thick  settling  rustle,  the  sound  a  fur  coat  might 
make  falling  to  the  floor;  and,  simultaneously,  a  vague 
slender  whiteness  appeared  on  the  night.  A  swift  con 
viction  fastened  on  him  that  here  he  had  been  over 
taken  by  fate;  by  what,  for  so  long,  he  had  invited. 
Out  of  the  insubstantiality  a  whispering  voice  spoke  to 
him: 

"Lee,  where  are  you?     It's  so  cold." 


[221] 


IV 


TWICE,  the  following  day,  Lee  telephoned  to 
Fanny,  but  neither  time  was  she  in  the  house; 
and,  kept  at  his  office,  he  was  obliged  to  take 
an  inconvenient  train  that  made  a  connection  for  East- 
lake.  When  Lee  reached  the  countryside  opening  in 
the  familiar  hilly  vistas  he  had,  in  place  of  the  usual 
calm  recognitions  through  a  run  of  hardly  more  than 
an  hour,  a  sense  of  having  come  a  long  way  to  a  scene 
from  which  he  had  been  absent  for  years.  It  appeared 
to  him  remarkably  tranquil  and  self-contained — safe 
was  the  word  which  came  to  him.  He  was  glad  to  be 
there,  but  at  indeterminate  stations  rather  than  in 
Eastlake.  He  dreaded,  for  no  plainly  comprehended 
reason,  his  return  home.  The  feelings  that,  histori 
cally,  he  should  have  owned  were  all  absent.  Had  it 
been  possible  he  would  have  cancelled  the  past  forty- 
eight  hours;  but  Lee  was  forced  to  admit  to  himself 
that  he  was  not  invaded  by  a  very  lively  sense  of 
guilt.  He  made  a  conventional  effort  to  see  his  act  in 
the  light  of  a  grave  fault — whatever  was  attached  to 
the  charge  of  adultery — but  it  failed  before  the  convic 
tion  that  the  whole  thing  was  sad. 

His  sorrow  was  for  Savina,  for  the  suffering  of  her 
[222] 


CYTHEREA 

past,  the  ordeal  of  the  present,  and  the  future  dreari 
ness.  There  had  been  no  suggestion  of  wrong  in  her 
surrender,  no  perceptible  consciousness  of  shame:  it 
was  exactly  as  though,  struggling  to  the  limit  of  en 
durance  against  a  powerful  adverse  current,  she  had 
turned  and  swept  with  it.  The  fact  was  that  the 
entire  situation  was  utterly  different  from  the  general 
social  and  moral  conception  of  it;  and  Lee  began  to 
wonder  which  were  stronger — the  individual  truth  or 
the  imposed  dogmatic  weight  of  the  world.  But  the 
latter,  he  added,  would  know  nothing  of  this.  Con 
cisely,  there  was  to  be  no  repetition  of  last  night;  there 
would  be  no  affair. 

Lee  Randon  had  completely  and  sharply  focussed 
the  most  adverse  possible  attitude  toward  that :  he  saw 
it  without  a  redeeming  feature  and  bare  of  any  chance 
of  pleasure.  His  need  for  honesty,  however  special, 
was  outraged  on  every  facet  by  the  thought  of  an  in 
trigue.  Lee  reconstructed  it  in  every  detail — he  saw 
the  moments,  doubtful  and  hurried  and  surreptitious, 
snatched  in  William  Grove's  house;  the  servants,  with 
their  penetration  of  the  tone  of  an  establishment, 
knowing  and  insufferable ;  he  lived  over  the  increasing 
dissatisfaction  with  quick  embraces  in  the  automobile, 
and  the  final  indignities  of  lying  names  and  rooms  of 
pandering  and  filthy  debasement.  The  almost  inevit 
able  exposure  followed,  the  furies  and  hysterical 
reproaches.  That,  indeed,  would  have  involved  them 
fatally:  in  such  circumstances  the  world  would  be 

[223] 


CYTHEREA 

invincible,  crushing;  holding  solidly  its  front  against 
such  dangerous  assault,  it  would  have  poured  over 
Savina  and  him  a  conviction  of  sin  in  which  they 
would  unavoidably  have  perished. 

As  it  was,  he  had  told  her — with,  in  himself,  the 
feeling  of  a  considerable  discovery — that  they  were  to 
a  marked  degree  superior:  he  could  find  no  more  re 
morse  at  his  heart  than  Savina  showed.  This,  exactly, 
was  his  inner  conviction — that,  since  he  had  given 
something  not  in  Fanny's  possession,  he  had  robbed 
her  of  nothing.  It  was  a  new  idea  to  him  and  it 
required  careful  thought,  a  slow  justification.  It  an 
swered,  perhaps,  once  and  for  all,  his  question  about 
the  essential  oneness  of  marriage.  Yes,  that  was  a 
misconception;  marriage  in  an  ideal  state  he  wasn't 
considering,  but  only  his  own  individual  position. 
To  love  but  one  woman  through  this  life  and  into  a 
next  would  be  blissful  ...  if  it  were  possible;  there 
might  be  a  great  deal  saved — but  by  someone  else — in 
heroically  supporting  such  an  Elysian  tenet;  Lee  Ran- 
don  definitely  hadn't  the  necessary  utopianism. 

Love  wasn't  a  sacred  fluid  held  in  a  single  vessel  of 
alabaster;  marriage  didn't  conveniently  create  short 
sightedness.  Lee  couldn't  pretend  to  answer  all  this 
for  women,  or  even  in  part  for  Savina.  Her  attitude, 
he  knew,  in  that  it  never  touched  the  abstract,  was  far 
simpler  than  his;  she  didn't  regard  herself  as  scarlet, 
but  thought  of  the  rest  of  the  world  as  unendurably 
drab.  The  last  thing  she  had  said  to  him  was  that 

[224] 


CYTHEREA 

she  was  glad,  glad,  that  it  had  happened.  This,  too, 
in  Savina,  had  preserved  them  from  the  slightest 
suggestion  of  inferiority :  the  night  assumed  no  resem 
blance  to  a  disgraceful  footnote  on  the  page  of  right 
eousness.  It  was  complete — and,  by  God,  admirable! 
— within  itself.  No  one,  practically,  would  agree 
with  him,  and  here,  in  the  fact  that  no  one  ever  could 
know,  his  better  wisdom  was  shown. 

About  love,  the  thing  itself,  his  perceptions  remained 
dim:  he  had  loved  Fanny  enormously  at  the  time  of 
their  wedding  and  he  loved  her  now,  so  many  years 
after ;  but  his  feeling — as  he  had  tried  so  unfortunately 
to  tell  her — wasn't  the  same,  it  had  grown  calm;  it 
had  become  peaceful,  but  an  old  tempestuous  need 
had  returned.  Yet,  until  he  had  gone  to  the  Groves', 
his  restlessness  had  been  trivial,  hardly  more  than 
academic,  a  half-smiling  interest  in  a  doll;  but  now, 
after  he  had  left  the  realm  of  fancy  for  an  overt  act, 
a  full  realization  of  his  implication  was  imperative. 
Without  it  he  would  be  unable  to  preserve  any  satis 
factory  life  with  Fanny  at  all;  his  uneasiness  must 
merely  increase,  .become  intolerable.  Certainly  there 
was  a  great,  it  should  be  an  inexhaustible,  amount 
of  happiness  for  him  in  his  wife,  his  children  and  his 
home;  he  would  grow  old  and  negative  with  them, 
and  there  die. 

But  a  lot  of  mental  re-adjustment,  understanding, 
was  necessary  first.  Suddenly  the  minor  adventures 
and  sensations  of  the  past  had  become,  even  before 

[225] 


CYTHEREA 

the  completeness  of  the  affair  with  Savina,  insuperably 
distasteful  to  him;  he  simply  couldn't  look  forward 
to  a  procession  of  them  reaching  to  impotence.  No, 
no,  no!  That  was  never  Cytherea's  import.  He 
didn't  want  to  impoverish  himself  by  the  cheap  fling 
ing  away  of  small  coin  from  his  ultimate  store.  He 
didn't,  equally,  wish  to  keep  on  exasperating  Fanny 
in  small  ways.  That  pettiness  was  wholly  to  blame 
for  what  discomfort  he  had  had.  His  wife's  claim 
was  still  greater  on  him  than  any  other's;  and  what, 
now,  he  couldn't  give  her  must  be  made  up  in  different 
ways.  This  conviction  invested  him  with  a  fresh 
sense  of  dignity  and  an  increasing  regard  for  Fanny. 

What  a  shame  it  was  that  he  could  not  go  quietly 
to  her  with  all  this,  tell  her  everything.  A  lie  was 
rooted,  concealed,  beyond  removal  at  the  base  of  the 
honesty  he  planned.  There  was,  of  course,  this  ad 
ditional  phase  of  the  difficulty — what  had  happened 
concerned  Savina  even  more  than  it  did  his  wife  and 
him.  He  had  Savina  Grove,  so  entirely  in  his  hands, 
to  guard.  And  the  innate  animosity  of  women  toward 
women  was  incalculable.  That  wasn't  a  new  thought, 
but  it  recurred  to  him  with  special  force.  As  much 
as  he  desired  it,  utter  frankness,  absolute  safety,  was 
impossible.  Fanny's  standard  of  duty,  or  responsi 
bility,  was  worlds  apart  from  his. 

Bitterly  and  without  premeditation  he  cursed  the 
tyranny  of  sex;  in  countless  forms  it  dominated,  dicta 
ted,  every  aspect  of  life.  Men's  conception  of  women 

[226] 


CYTHEREA 

was  quite  exclusively  founded  on  it  in  its  aspects  ot 
chastity  or  license.  In  the  latter  they  deprecated  the 
former,  and  in  the  first  they  condemned  all  trace  of 
the  latter.  The  result  of  this  was  that  women,  the 
prostitutes  and  the  mothers  alike,  as  well,  had  no  other 
validity  of  judgment.  The  present  marriage  was 
hardly  more  than  an  exchange  of  the  violation  of 
innocence,  or  of  acted  innocence,  for  an  adequate 
material  consideration.  If  this  were  not  true,  why  j 
was  innocence — a  silly  fact  in  itself — so  insisted 
upon?  Lee  was  forced  to  conclude  however,  that  it 
was  the  fault  of  men :  they  turned,  at  an  advancing  age 
when  it  was  possible  to  gather  a  comfortable  com 
petence,  to  the  young.  By  that  time  their  emotions 
were  apt  to  be  almost  desperately  variable. 

In  his  case  it  had  been  different — but  life  was  dif 
ferent,  easier,  when  he  had  married — and  his  wedding 
most  appropriate  to  felicity.  Yet  that,  against  every 
apparent  reason  to  the  contrary,  had  vanished,  and 
left  him  this  calm  determining  of  his  fate.  Through 
his  thoughts  a  quirk  of  memory  ran  like  a  tongue 
of  flame.  He  felt  Savina's  hand  under  his  cuff;  he 
felt  her  sliding,  with  her  arms  locked  about  his  neck, 
out  of  her  furs  in  the  automobile;  a  white  glimmer, 
a  whisper,  she  materialized  in  the  coldness  of  the 
night.  There  was  a  long-drawn  wailing  blast  from 
the  locomotive — they  were  almost  entering  the  train- 
shed  at  Eastlake.  When  Fanny  expected  him,  and  it 
was  possible,  she  met  him  at  the  station;  but  tonight 

[227] 


CYTHEREA 

he  would  have  to  depend  on  one  of  the  rattling  local 
motor  hacks.  Still,  he  looked  for  her  and  was  faintly 
and  unreasonably  disappointed  at  her  absence.  An 
uncontrollable  nervousness,  as  he  approached  his 
house,  invaded  the  preparation  of  a  warm  greeting. 

Fanny  was  seated  at  dinner,  and  she  interrupted  her 
recognition  of  his  arrival  to  order  his  soup  brought 
in.  "It's  really  awfully  hard  to  have  things  nice  when 
you  come  at  any  time,"  she  said  in  the  voice  of  re 
straint  which  usually  mildly  irritated  him.  He  was 
apt  to  reply  shortly,  unsympathetically ;  but,  firm  in 
the  determination  to  improve  the  tone  of  his  relations 
with  Fanny,  he  cheerfully  met  the  evidence  of  her 
sense  of  injury.  "Of  course,"  she  added,  "we  ex 
pected  you  yesterday  up  to  the  very  last  minute." 
When  he  asked  her  who  exactly  she  meant  by  we 
she  answered,  "The  Rodmans  and  John  and  Alice 
Luce.  It  was  all  arranged  for  you.  Borden  Rod 
man  sent  us  some  ducks ;  I  remembered  how  you  liked 
them,  and  I  asked  the  others  and  cooked  them  my 
self.  That's  mixed,  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  I 
had  oysters  and  the  thick  tomato  soup  with  crusts  and 
Brussels  sprouts;  and  I  sent  to  town  for  the  alligator 
pears  and  meringue.  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped, 
and  it's  all  over  now,  but  you  might  have  let  me 
know." 

"I  am  sorry,  Fanny,"  he  acknowledged;  "at  the  last 
so  much  piled  up  to  do.  Mina  Raff  was  very  doubt- 

[228] 


CYTHEREA 

ful.  I  can't  tell  if  I  accomplished  anything  with  her 
or  not."  Fanny  seemed  to  have  lost  all  interest  in 
Peyton  Morris's  affair.  "I  had  dinner  with  Mina 
and  talked  a  long  while.  At  bottom  she  is  sensible 
enough;  and  very  sensitive.  I  like  sensitive  women." 

"You  mean  that  you  like  other  women  to  be  sensi 
tive,"  she  corrected  him;  "whenever  I  am,  you  get  im 
patient  and  say  I'm  looking  for  trouble." 

There  was,  he  replied,  a  great  deal  in  what  she  said ; 
and  it  must  be  remedied.  At  this  she  gazed  at  him 
for  a  speculative  second.  "Where  did  you  take  Mina 
Raff  to  dinner?"  she  asked;  "and  what  did  you  do 
afterward?"  He  told  her.  "She  was  so  tired  that 
she  went  back  to  the  Plaza  before  ten.  No,  I  returned 
to  the  Groves'.  It's  no  good  being  in  New  York 
alone.  We'll  have  our  party  together  there  before 
Christmas." 

"I  imagined  you'd  see  a  lot  of  her." 

"Of  Mina  Raff?  What  nonsense!  She  is  work 
ing  all  day  and  practically  never  goes  out.  People 
have  such  wrong  ideas  about  actresses,  or  else  they 
have  changed  and  the  opinions  have  stood  still.  They 
are  as  business-like  now  as  lawyers;  you  make  an 
appointment  with  their  secretaries.  Besides  that, 
Mina  doesn't  specially  attract  me." 

"At  any  rate  you  call  her  Mina." 

"Why  so  I  do;  I  hadn't  noticed;  but  she  hasn't 
started  to  call  me  Lee;  I  must  correct  her." 

"They    played    bridge    afterward,"    Fanny    said, 
[229] 


CYTHEREA 

referring,  he  gathered,  to  the  occasion  he  had  missed. 
"That  is,  the  Rodmans  and  the  Luces  did,  and  I  sat 
around.  People  are  too  selfish  for  anything!"  Her 
voice  grew  sharper.  "They  stayed  until  after  twelve, 
just  because  Borden  was  nineteen  dollars  back  at  one 
time.  And  they  drank  all  that  was  left  of  your  special 
Mount  Vernon.  It  was  last  night  that  you  were  at 
the  St.  Regis?" 

"No,"  he  corrected  her,  "the  night  before.  Last 
evening  I  had  dinner  with  the  Groves."  This  was 
so  nearly  true  that  he  advanced  it  with  satisfaction. 
"Afterward  we  went  to  the  Greenwich  Follies." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  had  to  wait,  then,"  she  ob 
served  instantly.  "You  were  in  New  York  on  account 
of  Claire,  you  stayed  three  nights,  and  only  saw  Mina 
Raff  once."  He  told  her  briefly  that,  unexpectedly, 
more  had  turned  up.  "What  did  you  do  the  first 
night?"  she  persisted. 

"I  dragged  a  cash  girl  into  an  opium  place  on  Pell 
Street." 

"That's  not  too  funny  to  be  borne,"  she  returned; 
"and  it  doesn't  altogether  answer  my  question." 

"We  went  to  Malmaison." 

"We?"  she  mimicked  his  earlier  query. 

"Oh,  the  Groves.  I  like  them  very  much,  Fanny 
— "  To  her  interruption  that  that  was  evident  he 
paid  no  attention.  "He  is  an  extremely  nice  man, 
a  little  too  conscious  of  his  pedestal,  but  solid  and 
cordial.  Mrs.  Grove  is  more  unusual;  I  should  say 

[230] 


CYTHEREA 

she  was  a  difficult  woman  to  describe.  She  dresses 
beautifully,  Paris  and  the  rest  of  it;  but  she  isn't  a 
particle  good-looking.  Not  a  bit!  It's  her  color,  I 
think.  She  hasn't  any.  Women  would  fancy  her 
more  than  men;  no  one  could  call  her  pleasant." 

"You  haven't  asked  about  the  children."  She  had 
apparently  heard  nothing  of  what  had  gone  before. 

"Of  course  they  are  all  right  or  you'd  have  told  me." 

"Lee,  you  astonish  me,  you  really  do;  at  times  I 
think  you  forget  you  have  a  family.  We'll  all  be  dead 
before  you  know  it.  I'm  sorry,  but  you  will  have  to 
get  into  the  habit  of  staying  home  at  least  one  night 
a  week.  I  attend  to  all  I  can  manage  about  the 
place,  but  there  are  some  things  you  must  settle.  The 
trouble  is  I  haven't  demanded  enough  from  you." 

"That's  silly,"  he  responded,  almost  falling  into 
his  discarded  irritation;  "I  practically  never  go  out 
without  you.  Unless  you  are  with  me  I  won't  be  in 
New  York  again  for  weeks." 

"I  should  have  thought  you'd  be  back  at  the 
Groves's  tomorrow.  It's  more  amusing  there,  I  don't 
doubt;  but,  after  all,  you  are  married  to  me." 

"Good  heavens,  Fanny,"  he  protested,  "what  is 
this  about?  You're  really  cutting  with  the  Groves 
— two  excessively  nice  people  who  were  decent  to  me." 

"You  are  such  an  idiot,"  she  declared,  in  a  warmer 
voice.  "Can't  you  see  how  disappointed  I  was? 
First  I  had  everything  laid  out  on  the  bed,  my  best 
nightgowns  and  lace  stockings,  for  the  trip;  then  I 

[231] 


CYTHEREA 

couldn't  go;  and  I  arranged  the  party  so  carefully  for 
you,  Gregory  had  a  practice  piece  ready  for  you  to 
hear,  and — and  nothing.  I  wonder  if  any  other  man 
is  as  selfish  as  you?" 

"Maybe  not,"  he  returned  peaceably.  "What  hap 
pened  was  unavoidable.  It  was  a  social  necessity, 
decided  for  me.  I  couldn't  just  run  into  the  house 
and  out  again.  But  there  is  no  need  to  explain 
further."  He  left  the  table,  for  a  cigar,  and  returned. 
"You  have  on  a  new  dress!" 

"I  ought  to  be  complimented,"  she  admitted,  "but 
I  am  not;  it's  only  the  black  velvet  with  the  fulness 
taken  out  and  a  new  ruffle.  Clothes  are  so  expensive 
that  I  wanted  to  save.  It  isn't  French,  either.  Per 
haps  you'll  remember  that  you  said  the  new  length 
didn't  become  me.  No,  you're  not  the  idiot — I  am: 
I  must  stop  considering  and  trying  to  please  you  at 
every  turn.  I  should  have  gone  in  and  ordered  a 
new  dress;  any  other  woman  you  know  would  have 
done  that;  and,  I  have  no  doubt,  would  have  told  you 
it  was  old  when  it  wasn't.  I  wish  I  didn't  show  that 
I  care  so  much  and  kept  you  guessing.  You'd  be 
much  more  interested  if  you  weren't  so  sure  of  me. 
That  seems  to  me  queer — loyalty  and  affection,  and 
racking  your  brain  to  make  your  husband  comfortable 
and  happy,  don't  bring  you  anything.  They  don't! 
You'll  leave  at  once  for  a  night  in  New  York  or  a 
new  face  with  an  impudent  bang  at  the  dances.  I 

[232] 


CYTHEREA 

have  always  tried  to  do  what  I  thought  was  right,  but 
I'm  getting  discouraged." 

"Don't  lose  patience  with  me,"  he  begged  gravely. 
"If  I  am  worth  the  effort  to  you,  Fanny,  don't  stop. 
I  do  the  best  I  can.  Coming  out  in  the  train  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  stop  petty  quarreling.  No,  wait — 
if  it  is  my  fault  that  makes  it  easy,  we're  done  with  it." 

"From  the  way  you  talk,"  she  objected,  "anyone 
would  think  we  did  nothing  but  fight.  And  that  isn't 
true;  we  have  never  had  a  bit  of  serious  trouble." 
She  rose,  coming  around  to  him: 

"That  wasn't  a  very  nice  kiss  we  had  when  you 
came  in.  I  was  horrid." 

Lee  Randon  kissed  her  again.  The  cool  familiar 
ity  of  her  lips  was  blurred  in  the  remembered  clinging 
intensity  of  Savina's  mouth.  "Lee,  dear,  blow  out  the 
candles;  the  servants  forget,  and  those  blue  hand 
made  ones  cost  twenty- five  cents  apiece."  They  left 
the  dining-room  with  her  arm  about  him  and  his 
hand  laid  on  her  shoulder.  Lee's  feeling  was  curious 
— he  recognized  Fanny's  desirability,  he  loved  her 
beyond  all  doubt,  and  yet  physically  she  had  now  no 
perceptible  influence  on  him.  He  was  even  a  little 
embarrassed,  awkward,  at  her  embrace;  and  its 
calmly  possessive  pressure  filled  him  with  a  restive 
wish  to  move  away.  He  repressed  this,  forced  himself 
to  hold  her  still,  repeated  silently  all  that  she  had  given 
him;  and  she  turned  a  face  brilliant  with  color  to  his 

[233] 


CYTHEREA 

gaze.  Fanny  made  him  bring  her  stool — how  sharply 
Savina's  heels  had  dug  into  him  under  the  table  at 
the  Lafayette — and  showed  him  her  ankles.  "You 
see,  I  put  them  on  tonight  for  you."  Her  stockings, 
he  assured  her,  were  enchanting.  A  difficulty  that, 
incredibly,  he  had  not  foreseen  weighed  upon  him: 
the  body,  where  Fanny  was  concerned,  had  given  place 
to  the  intellect;  the  warmth  of  his  feeling  had  been  put 
aside  for  the  logic  of  determination;  and  he  was  sick 
with  weariness.  In  his  customary  chair,  he  sank  into 
a  heavy  brooding  lethargy,  a  silence,  in  which  his 
hands  slowly  and  stiffly  clenched. 

On  the  following  morning,  Sunday,  Lee  rode  with 
Claire  Morris.  Fanny,  disinclined  to  activity,  stayed 
by  the  open  fire,  with  the  illustrated  sections  of  the 
newspapers  and  her  ornamental  sewing.  Claire  was 
on,  a  tall  bright  bay  always  a  little  ahead  of  Lee, 
and  he  was  constantly  urging  ,his  horse  forward. 
" Peyton  went  to  the  Green  Spring  Valley  for  a  hunt 
party  last  night,"  she  told  him;  uhe  said  he'd  be  back." 
Why,  then,  he  almost  exclaimed,  he,  Lee,  had  been 
successful  with  Mina  Raff.  Instead  he  said  that  she 
would  undoubtedly  be  glad  of  that.  "Oh,  yes!  But 
neither  of  us  is  very  much  excited  about  it  just  now; 
he  is  too  much  like  a  ball  on  a  rubber  string;  and  if 
I  were  a  man  I'd  hate  to  resemble  that.  I  won't  try 
to  hide  from  you  that  I've  lost  something;  still,  I 
have  him  and  Mina  hasn't.  They  shouldn't  have 

[234] 


CYTHEREA 

hesitated,  Lee;  that  was  what  spoiled  it,  in  the  end 
beat  them.  It  wasn't  strong  enough  to  carry  them 
away  and  damn  the  consequences.  There  is  always 
something  to  admire  in  that,  even  if  you  suffer  from 


it." 


The  night  had  been  warm,  and  the  road,  the  foot 
ing,  was  treacherous  with  loosened  stones  and  mud. 
The  horses,  mounting  a  hill,  picked  their  way  care 
fully;  and  Lee  Randon  gazed  over  his  shoulder  into 
the  valley  below.  He  saw  it  through  a  screen  of  bare 
wet  maple  branches — a  dripping  brown  meadow  lightly 
wreathed  in  blue  mist,  sedgy  undergrowth  along  water 
and  the  further  ranges  of  hills  merged  in  shifting 
clouds.  A  shaft  of  sunlight,  pale  and  without 
warmth,  illuminated  with  its  emphasis  an  undis 
tinguished  and  barren  spot.  On  the  meadows  slop 
ing  to  the  south  there  were  indefinite  spaces  of  green. 
Claire  was  heedless  of  their  surroundings. 

"What  does  surprise  and  disturb  me,"  she  con 
tinued  vigorously,  "is  that  I  haven't  any  sympathy 
for  him.  That  is  gone  too ;  I  only  have  a  feeling  that 
he  bitched  it.  As  you  may  observe,  Lee,  I  am  not  at 
all  admirable  this  morning:  a  figure  of  inconsistency. 
And  the  reason  will  amaze  you — I've  rather  come  to 
envy  what  they  might  have  had.  I  am  afraid  that 
if  the  positions  of  Mina  and  me  had  been  reversed 
I  wouldn't  have  seen  you  in  New  York.  I  found 
that  out  last  night  when  I  knew  Peyton  wasn't  going. 
What  he  said  over  and  over  was  that  everything  could 

[235] 


CYTHEREA 

be  just  as  it  was."  She  laughed,  riding  easily,  sub 
consciously,  on  the  snaffle  rein.  "Peyton's  simplicity 
is  marvelous.  In  a  year,  or  maybe  less,  he  will  be 
quite  the  same  as  always.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it;  Peyton  and  Mina  will  go  on  as  fresh  as  daisies; 
yet  only  I'll  be  damaged  or,  anyway,  changed.  What 
shall  I  do  about  it?"  she  demanded  of  Lee  Randon, 
so  sharply  that  her  horse  shied. 

"About  what?"  he  returned.  "My  senses  are  so 
dulled  by  your  ingratitude  that  I  can't  gather  what 
you  mean." 

"Well,  here  I  am — a  girl  with  her  head  turned  by 
a  glimpse  at  a  most  romantic  play,  by  cakes  and 
champagne  cup,  and  then  sent  home  to  bread  without 
jam.  Since  I've  known  of  this  it  has  taken  most  of 
the  color  out  of  everyday  things,  they  are  like  a  tub- 
full  of  limp  rags  with  the  dye  run  from  them.  I 
want  Peyton,  yes,  I  love  him;  but  what  I  thought 
would  satisfy  me  doesn't.  I  want  more !  I  am  very 
serious  about  the  romantic  play — it  is  exactly  what 
I  mean.  I  had  read  about  great  emotions,  seen  them 
since  I  was  a  child  at  the  opera,  and  there  was  the 
Madrid  affair;  but  that  was  so  far  away,  and  I  never 
thought  of  the  others  as  real;  I  never  understood  that 
people  really  had  them,  in  Eastlake  as  well  as  Spain, 
until  I  watched  Peyton  miss  his.  And  then  it  came 
over  me  in  a  flash  what  life  could  be." 

"We  are  all  in  the  same  fix,  Claire,"  he  told  her. 

"But  not  you,"  she  replied  impatiently;  "your  ex- 
[236] 


CYTHEREA 

istence  with  Fanny  is  the  most  perfect  for  miles 
around.  Fanny  is  marvelous  to  you,  and  you  are  as 
sensible  as  you  are  nice." 

"You  think,  then,  that  I  haven't  seen  any  of  this 
romantic  show  you  are  talking  about?" 

"If  you  had  you  wouldn't  let  it  spoil  your  comfort." 

The  pig  again! 

"Well,  what  is  it  here  or  there?"  she  cried.  "I'll 
feel  like  this  for  a  little  and  then  die  alive.  Did  you 
ever  notice  an  old  woman,  Lee?  She  is  like  a  horrid 
joke.  There  is  something  unconquerably  vain  and 
foolish  about  old  men  that  manages  to  save  them 
from  entire  ruin.  But  a  woman  shrivelled  and 
blasted  and  twisted  out  of  her  purpose — they  either 
look  as  though  they  had  been  steeped  in  vinegar  or 
filled  with  tallow — is  simply  obscene.  Before  it  is 
too  harrowing,  and  in  their  best  dresses  and  flowers, 
they  ought  to  step  into  a  ball-room  of  chloroform. 
But  this  change  in  me,  Lee,  isn't  in  my  own  imagina 
tion.  The  people  who  know  me  best  have  complained 
that  what  patience  I  had  has  gone;  even  Ira,  I'm 
certain,  notices  it.  I  have  no  success  in  what  used 
to  do  to  get  along  with;  my  rattle  of  talk,  my  line,  is 
gone." 

"Those  relations  of  Mina  Raff's,  the  Groves,"  he 
said,  shifting  the  talk  to  the  subject  of  his  thoughts, 
"are  very  engaging.  Mrs.  Grove  specially.  She  has 
splendid  qualities  almost  never  found  together  in  one 
person.  She  is,  well,  I  suppose  careful  is  the  word, 

[237] 


CYTHEREA 

and,  at  the  same  time,  not  at  all  dull.  I  wonder  if 
she  is  altogether  well  ?  Her  paleness  would  spoil  most 
women's  looks  and,  it  seems  to  me,  she  mentioned  her 
heart." 

"Good  Lord,  Lee,  what  are  you  rambling  on  about? 
I  don't  care  for  a  description  of  the  woman  like  one 
of  those  anatomical  zodiacs  in  the  Farmers'  Almanac." 
She  turned  her  horse,  without  warning,  through  a 
break  in  the  fence;  and,  putting  him  at  a  smart  run, 
jumped  a  stream  with  a  high  insecure  bank  beyond, 
and  went  with  a  pounding  rush  up  a  sharp  incline. 
He  followed,  but  more  conservatively;  and,  at  the 
solid  fence  she  next  took,  he  shouted  that  she'd  have 
to  continue  on  that  gait  alone. 

"Don't  be  so  careful,"  she  answered  mockingly, 
trotting  back;  "take  a  chance;  feel  the  wind  streaming 
in  your  face;  you'll  reach  Fanny  safely." 

What,  exasperated,  he  muttered  was,  "Damn 
Fanny!"  He  had  jumped  a  fence  as  high  and 
wide  as  respectability;  and  he  enormously  preferred 
Savina's  sort  of  courage  to  this  mad  galloping  over 
the  country.  What  Claire  and  Peyton  and  Mina  Raff 
talked  about,  longed  for,  Savina  took.  He  involun 
tarily  shut  his  eyes,  and,  rocking  to  the  motion  of  his 
horse,  heard,  in  the  darkness,  a  soft  settling  fall,  he 
saw  an  indefinite  trace  of  whiteness  which  swelled  into 
an  incandescence  that  consumed  him.  They  had 
turned  toward  home  and,  on  an  unavoidable  reach 
of  concrete  road,  were  walking.  The  horses'  hoofs 

[238] 


CYTHEREA 

made  a  rhythmic  hollow  clatter.  Claire,  with  the 
prospect  of  losing  her  love,  had  hinted  at  the  possibili 
ties  of  an  inherited  recklessness;  but  here  was  a  new 
and  unexpected  cause  of  disturbance. 

Lee  would  never  have  supposed  that  such  ideas  were 
at  the  back  of  Claire's  head.  He  gazed  at  her,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  she  had  ruffled  his  temper,  even 
with  an  increased  interest.  In  her  direct  way  she 
had  put  into  words  many  of  the  vague  pressures  float 
ing,  like  water  under  night,  through  his  brain.  He 
would  act  differently;  Claire  wasn't  practical — all 
that  she  indicated  couldn't  be  followed.  It  was  spun 
of  nothing  more  substantial  than  the  bright  visions 
of  youth;  but  the  world,  he,  Lee  Randon,  was  the 
poorer  for  that.  His  was  the  wise  course.  It  took 
a  marked  degree  of  strength;  no  weak  determination 
could  hope  for  success  in  the  conduct  he  had  planned 
for  himself;  and  that  gave  him  material  for  satisfac 
tion. 

He  turned  to  the  left,  at  the  road  leading  past  his 
driveway,  and  Claire  went  up  the  hill  into  Eastlake 
alone.  She  had  thought  he  was  describing  Savina 
for  her  benefit !  The  truth  was  that  he  had  been  pos 
sessed  by  a  tyrannical  necessity  to  talk  about  Savina 
Grove,  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  praise  if  it  were  only 
on  his  own  voice.  It  assisted  his  memory,  created, 
like  the  faintly  heard  echo  of  a  thrilling  voice,  a 
similitude  not  without  its  power  to  stir  him.  The 
secret  realms  of  thought,  of  fancy  and  remembrance, 

[239] 


CYTHEREA 

he  felt,  were  his  to  linger  in,  to  indulge,  as  he  chose. 
Lee  had  a  doubt  of  the  advisability  of  this;  but  his 
question  was  disposed  of  by  the  realization  that  he  had 
nothing  to  say;  his  mind  turned  back  and  back  to 
Savina. 

He  wondered  when,  or,  rather,  by  what  means,  he 
should  hear  from  her  again;  perhaps — although  it 
required  no  reply — in  response  to  the  letter  he  had 
written  to  the  Groves  acknowledging  their  kindness 
and  thanking  them  for  it.  To  Lee,  William  Loyd 
Grove  was  more  immaterial  than  a  final  shred  of  mist 
lifting  from  the  sunken  road  across  the  golf  course; 
even  his  appreciation  of  the  other's  good  qualities  had 
vanished,  leaving  nothing  at  all.  He  was  confused 
by  the  ease  with  which  the  real,  the  solid,  became 
the  nebulous  and  unreal,  as  though  the  only  standard 
of  values,  of  weights  and  measures,  lay  absurdly  in 
his  own  inconsequential  attitude. 

The  Randons  had  no  formal  meal  on  Sunday 
night;  but  there  were  sandwiches,  a  bowl  of  salad, 
coffee,  and  what  else  were  referred  to  generally  as 
drinks ;  and  a  number  of  people  never  failed  to  appear. 
It  was  always  an  occasion  of  mingled  conversations, 
bursts  of  popular  song  at  the  piano,  and  impromptu 
dancing  through  the  length  of  the  lower  floor.  The 
benches  at  either  side  of  the  fire-place  were  invariably 
crowded;  and,  from  her  place  on  the  over-mantel, 
Cytherea's  gaze  rested  on  the  vivacious  or  subdued 

[240] 


CYTHEREA 

current  of  life.  Lee  Randon  often  gazed  up  at  her, 
and  tonight,  sunk  in  a  corner  with  scarcely  room  to 
move  the  hand  which  held  a  cigarette,  this  lifted  inter 
rogation  was  prolonged. 

Mrs.  Craddock,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  the 
dinner-dance  at  the  club,  sat  beside  him  in  a  vivid 
green  dress  with  large  black  beads  strung  from  her 
left  shoulder.  She  looked  very  well,  he  reflected ; 
that  was  a  becoming  dimple  in  her  cheek.  He  had 
had  the  beginning  of  an  interest  in  her — new  to  East- 
lake,  and  her  husband  dead,  she  had  taken  a  house 
there  for  the  winter — but  that  had  vanished  now.  He 
was  deep  in  thought  when  she  said : 

"Didn't  I  hear  that  you  were  infatuated  with  that 
doll?" 

Who,  he  demanded,  had  told  her  such  a  strange 
story?  "But  she  does  attract  me,"  he  admitted;  "or, 
rather,  she  raises  a  great  many  questions,  natural  in 
a  person  named  Cytherea.  The  pair  of  castanets  on 
a  nail — Claire  used  them  in  an  Andalusian  dance — 
might  almost  be  an  offering,  like  the  crutches  of  Lour- 
des,  left  before  her  by  a  grateful  child  of  the  ballet." 

"I  can't  see  what  you  do,  of  course;  but  she  reminds 
me  of  quantities  of  women — fascinating  on  the  out 
side  and  nothing  within.  Men  are  always  being 
fooled  by  that:  they  see  a  face  or  hear  a  voice  that 
starts  something  or  other  going  in  them,  and  they 
supply  a  complete  personality  just  as  they  prefer  it, 
like  the  filling  of  a  pate  case.  That  is  what  you  have 

[241] 


CYTHEREA 

done  with  this  doll — imagined  a  lot  of  things  that 
don't  exist." 

"If  they  do  in  me,  that's  enough,  isn't  it?"  he 
demanded.  "You're  partly  wrong  ,  at  any  rate — 
Cytherea  is  the  originator  and  I'm  the  pate.  But 
where,  certainly,  you  are  right  is  that  she  is  only  a 
representation ;  and  it  is  what  she  may  represent  which 
holds  me.  Cytherea,  if  she  would,  could  answer  the 
most  important  question  of  my  life." 

"How  tragic  that  she  can't  speak." 

"Yet  that  isn't  necessary;  she  might  be  a  guide, 
like  a  pointing  finger-post.  I  met  a  woman  lately, 
as  charming  as  possible,  who  resembled  her;  and  I'm 
sure  that  if  I  had  them  together — "  he  left  the  end  of 
his  sentence  in  air.  Then  he  began  again,  "But  that 
could  not  be  managed ;  not  much  can,  with  advantage, 
in  this  world."  From  beyond  the  hall,  to  the  ac 
companiment  of  the  piano,  came  the  words,  "She  might 
have  been  a  mother  if  she  hadn't  looped  the  loop." 
Lee  made  a  disdainful  gesture.  "That  is  the  tone  of 
the  present — anything  is  acceptable  if  it  is  trivial; 
you  may  kiss  wherever  you  like  if  you  mean  nothing 
by  it.  But  if  it's  important,  say  like — like  sympathy, 
it's  made  impossible  for  you." 

"If  you  were  someone  else,"  Mrs.  Craddock  ob 
served,  "I'd  think  you  were  in  love.  You  have  a 
great  many  of  the  symptoms — the  wandering  eye  and 
wild  speech." 

"I  am,  with  Fanny,"  he  declaimed,  struggling  out 
[242] 


CYTHEREA 

of  the  bench  corner.  No  one  should  discover  the 
memory  he  carried  everywhere  with  him.  The  lights 
had  been  switched  off  in  the  living-room,  but  the  piano 
continued,  and  glowing  cigarettes,  like  red  and  er 
ratically  waving  signals,  were  visible.  Returning, 
going  into  the  dining-room,  he  saw  that  the  whiskey 
had  been  plentifully  spilled  over  the  table.  In  the 
morning  the  varnish  would  be  marred  by  white  stains. 
The  stairs  were  occupied,  the  angle  in  the  hall  behind 
which  a  door  gave  to  the  cellar  steps,  was  filled;  a 
sound,  not  culinary,  came  from  the  kitchen  pantry. 
Even  Fanny,  with  her  hair  in  disorder,  was  dancing 
ian  eccentric  step  with  Borden  Rodman.  All  this 
vibrating  emotion  created  in  him,  sudden  and  piercing, 
a  desire  for  Savina. 

He  wanted  her,  the  touch  of  her  magnetic  hands, 
her  clinging  body,  her  passionate  abandon,  with  every 
sense.  It  was  unbearable  that  she,  too,  wasn't  here, 
waiting  for  him  in  the  convenient  darkness.  He  had 
to  have  her,  he  muttered.  At  the  same  time  he  was 
appalled  by  the  force  of  his  feeling :  it  shook  him  like 
a  chill  and  gripped  his  heart  with  an  acute  pain. 
His  entire  being  was  saturated  with  a  longing  that 
was  at  once  a  mental  and  physical  disturbance.  Noth 
ing  in  his  life,  no  throe  of  passion  or  gratification, 
had  been  like  this.  Lee  hastily  poured  out  a  drink 
and  swallowed  it.  He  was  burning  up,  he  thought; 
it  felt  as  though  a  furnace  were  open  at  his  back ;  and 
he  went  out  to  the  silence,  the  coldness,  of  the  terrace 

[243] 


CYTHEREA 

flagging  on  the  lawn.  The  lower  window  shades  had 
been  pulled  down,  but,  except  in  the  dining-room, 
they  showed  no  blur  of  brightness.  Through  the 
walls  the  chords  of  the  piano  were  just  audible,  and 
the  volume  of  voices  was  reduced  to  a  formless 
humming. 

It  had  cleared,  the  sky  was  glittering  with  constel 
lations  of  stars;  against  them  Lee  could  trace  the 
course  of  his  telephone  wire.  But  for  that  his  house, 
taking  an  added  dignity  of  mass  from  the  night,  might 
have  been  the  reality  of  which  it  was  no  more  than 
an  admirable  replica.  There  was  little  here,  out 
side,  to  suggest  or  recall  the  passage  of  a  century 
and  over.  In  the  lapse  of  that  time,  Lee  thought, 
more  had  been  lost  than  gained;  the  simplicity  had 
vanished,  but  wisdom  had  not  been  the  price  of  its 
going. 

Of  all  the  people  at  present  in  his  dwelling,  Fanny 
was  the  best  in  the  sense  of  old  solid  things;  he  could 
see  her,  with  no  change,  at  the  board  of  an  early  house 
hold.  Compared  to  her  the  others  seemed  like  figures 
in  a  fever;  yet  he  was,  unhappily,  with  them  rather 
than  with  Fanny.  God  knew  there  was  fever  enough 
in  his  brain!  But  the  winter  night  was  cooling  it — 
a  minor  image  of  the  final  office  of  death;  the  chok 
ing  hunger  for  Savina  was  dwindling.  He  hoped 
that  it  wouldn't  be  repeated.  He  couldn't  answer 
for  himself  through  many  such  attacks.  Yes,  his 
first  love,  though  just  as  imperative,  had  been  more 

[244] 


CYTHEREA 

ecstatic;  the  reaching  for  an  ideal  rather  than  the  body 
of  a  woman. 

His  allegiance  to  Cytherea,  though,  was  in  part  to 
the  former,  to  youth;  now  it  seemed  to  him  he  had 
preserved  that  through  all  his  life.  But  the  latter, 
at  least  in  its  devastating  power,  was  new.  Lee  recog 
nized  it  as  passion,  but  passion  to  a  degree  beyond 
all  former  experience  and  comprehension.  Why  had 
it  been  quiescent  so  long  to  overwhelm  him  now? 
Or  what  had  he  done  to  open  himself  to  such  an 
invasion?  A  numbing  poison  couldn't  have  been 
very  different.  Then,  contrarily,  he  was  exhilarated 
by  the  knowledge  of  the  vitality  of  his  emotion;  Lee 
reconsidered  it  with  an  amazement  which  resembled 
pride. 

The  penny  kisses  here — he  was  letting  himself  into 
the  house — were  like  the  candies  Fanny  had  in  a 
crystal  dish  on  the  sideboard,  flavors  of  cinnamon  and 
rose  and  sugary  chocolate.  They  were  hardly  more 
than  the  fumes  of  alcohol.  But  the  party  showed  no 
signs  of  ending,  the  piano  continued  to  be  played 
without  a  break;  one  sentimental  song  had  been  re 
peated,  without  the  omission  of  a  line,  a  held  note, 
ten  times,  Lee  was  sure.  Fanny  paused  breathlessly, 
with  a  hand  on  his  arm: 

"They  are  all  having  such  a  good  time;  it  is  abso 
lutely  successful.  Isn't  Borden  sweet  to  bother  teach 
ing  me  that  heel  tap.  Go  in  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Crad- 
dock  again;  I  thought  you  liked  her." 

[245] 


CYTHEREA 

In  the  hall  the  victrola  had  been  started  in  op 
position  to  the  piano  beyond,  and  the  result  was  a 
pandemonium  of  mechanical  sound  and  hysterical 
laughter.  Cytherea  was  unmoved,  enigmatic,  fascinat 
ing;  the  gilt  of  her  headdress  shone  in  minute  spar 
kles — Lee  had  turned  on  the  lights  by  the  mantel. 
"You  always  come  back  to  her,"  Mrs.  Craddock  said. 
When  he  replied  that  this  time  he  had  returned  to 
her,  she  shook  her  head  sceptically.  "But  I  suppose 
you  have  to  say  it."  He  dropped  back  into  a  corner 
of  one  of  the  benches;  they  were  a  jumble  of  skirts 
and  reclining  heads  and  elevated  pumps.  The  vic 
trola,  at  the  end  of  a  record  and  unattended,  ran  on 
with  a  shrill  scratch.  Cytherea  had  the  appearance 
of  floating  in  the  restrained  light;  her  smile  was  not 
now  so  mocking  as  it  was  satirical ;  from  her  detached 
attention  she  might  have  been  regarding  an  extraor 
dinary  and  unpredictable  spectacle  which  she  had 
indifferently  brought  about.  It  was  evident  that 
among  what  virtues  she  might  possess  charity  was  not 
present. 

After  the  last  automobile  leaving — shifted  through 
the  diminishing  clamor  of  its  gears — had  carried  its 
illumination  into  the  farther  obscurity  of  the  road, 
Fanny,  uncomfortable  in  the  presence  of  disorder, 
quickly  obliterated  the  remaining  traces  of  their  party : 
she  emptied  the  widely  scattered  ash  trays  into  a 
brass  bowl,  gathered  the  tall  whiskey  glasses  and  the 

[246] 


CYTHEREA 

glasses  with  fragile  stems  and  brilliantly  enamelled 
belligerent  roosters,  the  empty  charged  water  bottles, 
on  the  dresser  in  the  pantry,  and  returned  chairs  and 
flowers  to  their  recognized  places,  while  Lee  locked 
up  the  decanters  of  whiskey.  Fanny  was  tired  but 
enthusiastic,  and,  as  she  went  deftly  about,  rearrang 
ing  her  house  with  an  unfailing  surety  of  touch,  she 
hummed  fragments  of  the  evening's  songs. 

Lee  Randon  was  weary  without  any  qualification; 
the  past  day,  tomorrow — but  it  was  already  today — 
offered  him  no  more  than  a  burden,  so  many  heavy 
hours,  to  be  supported.  The  last  particle  of  interest 
had  silently  gone  from  his  existence.  His  condition 
was  entirely  different  from  the  mental  disquiet  of  a 
month  ago;  no  philosophical  considerations  nor  ab 
stract  ideas  absorbed  him  now — it  was  a  weariness 
not  of  the  mind  but  of  the  spirit,  a  complete  sterility 
of  imagination  and  incentive,  as  though  an  announced 
and  coveted  prize  had  been  arbitrarily  withdrawn 
during  the  struggle  it  was  to  have  rewarded.  There 
was  no  reason  Lee  could  think  of  for  keeping  up  his 
diverse  efforts.  He  sat  laxly  in  his  customary  corner 
of  the  living  room — Fanny,  he  felt,  had  disposed  of 
him  there  as  she  had  the  other  surrounding  objects 
— his  legs  thrust  out  before  him,  too  negative  to  smoke. 

His  wife  leaned  over  and  kissed  him;  she  was,  she 
had  suddenly  discovered,  dead  with  fatigue.  The 
kiss  was  no  more  than  the  contact  of  her  lips  on  his. 
The  clear  realization  of  this  startled  him;  now  not 

[247] 


CYTHEREA 

an  emotion,  not  even  tenderness,  responded  to  her 
gestures  of  love.  His  indifference  had  been  absolute! 
There  had  been  periods  of  short  duration  when,  ex 
asperated  with  Fanny,  he  had  lost  the  consciousness 
of  his  affection  for  her;  but  then  he  had  been  filled 
with  other  stirred  emotions;  and  now  he  was  coldly 
empty  of  feeling.  It  was  this  vacancy  that  specially 
disturbed  him:  it  had  an  appearance,  new  to  all  his 
processes,  of  permanence. 

•  Outside  his  will  the  fact  was  pronounced  for  him 
that — for  a  long  or  short  period — he  had  ceased  to 
love  his  wife.  There  was  something  so  intimately 
and  conventionally  discourteous  in  his  realization  that 
he  avoided  it  even  in  his  thoughts.  But  it  would  not 
be  ignored ;  it  was  too  robust  a  truth  to  be  suppressed 
by  weakened  instincts.  He  didn't  love  Fanny  and 
Fanny  did  love  him  ...  a  condition,  he  felt  indig 
nantly,  which  should  be  automatically  provided 
against;  none  of  the  ethics  of  decency  or  conduct  pro 
vided  for  that.  It  wasn't  for  a  second,  without  the 
single,  the  familiar  and  ancient,  cause,  allowed. 
Fanny,  least  of  any  imaginable  woman,  had  given  him 
a  pretext  for  complaint.  Yet,  with  everyone  acknowl 
edging  her  to  be  the  perfect  wife,  and  he  at  the  fore  of 
such  praise,  he  had  incontestably  stopped  caring  for 
her.  It  was  a  detestable  situation. 

In  the  whole  body  of  preconceived  thought  and 
action  there  wasn't  a  word,  a  possible  movement,  left 
for  him.  He  was,  simply,  a  hyena;  that  description, 

[248] 


CYTHEREA 

not  innocent  of  humor,  was  still  strikingly  close  to 
what  he  would  generally  hear  if  the  state  of  his  mind 
were  known.  It  was  paralyzing,  but  absolutely  no 
provision  had  been  made  for  men,  decent  enough,  who 
had  stopped  loving  decent  wives.  Lee  was  not,  here, 
considering  the  part  of  his  life  involved  with  Savina 
Grove:  Savina  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  attitude 
toward  Fanny.  This  didn't  hang  on  the  affection  he 
might  have  for  one  at  the  superficial  expense  of  the 
other:  Savina — while  it  was  undeniable  that  she  had 
done  exactly  this  in  the  vulgar  physical  sense — hadn't 
essentially  taken  him  away  from  Fanny.  He  had 
gone  self-directed,  or,  rather,  in  the  blind  manner  of  an 
object  obeying  the  law  of  gravity.  He  couldn't  argue 
that  he  had  been  swept  away. 

It  wasn't,  either,  that  he  overwhelmingly  wanted  to 
go  to  Savina  Grove,  he  overwhelmingly  didn't;  and 
the  strangling  emotion,  the  desire,  that  had  possessed 
him  earlier  in  the  evening  had  been  sufficiently  unwel 
come.  His  only  reaction  to  that  was  the  vigorous 
hope  that  it  wouldn't  come  back.  No,  he  had,  men 
tally,  settled  the  affair  with  Savina  in  the  best  possible 
manner;  now  he  was  strictly  concerned  with  the  bond 
between  his  wife  and  himself.  The  most  reliable  ad 
vice,  self-administered  or  obtained  from  without,  he 
could  hope  for  would  demand  that  he  devote  the  rest 
of  his  life,  delicately  considerate,  to  Fanny.  She  must 
never  know  the  truth.  This  was  the  crown  of  a 
present  conception  of  necessity  and  unassailable  con- 

[249] 


CYTHEREA 

duct,  of  nobility.  But,  against  this,  Lee  Randon  was 
obliged  to  admit  that  he  was  not  a  particle  noble;  he 
wasn't  certain  that  he  wanted  to  be;  he  suspected  it. 

Putting  aside,  for  the  moment,  the  doubtfulness  of 
his  being  able  to  maintain  successfully,  through  years, 
such  an  imposition,  there  was  something  dark,  equally 
dubious,  in  its  performance.  He  might  manage  it 
publicly,  even  superficially  in  private,  and  as  a  father; 
but  marriage  wasn't  primarily  a  superficial  relation 
ship.  It  was  very  much  the  reverse.  Its  fundamental 
condition  was  the  profoundest  instinct  that  controlled 
living;  there  no  merely  admirable  conduct  could  man 
age  to  be  more  than  a  false  and  degrading,  a  tempor 
ary,  lie.  How  could  he  with  a  pandering  smugness 
meet  Fanny's  purity  of  feeling?  Yet,  it  seemed,  ex 
actly  this  was  being  done  by  countless  other  applauded 
men.  But,  probably,  the  difference  between  them  and 
himself  was  that  they  had  no  objective  consciousness 
of  their  course;  happily  they  never  stopped  to  think. 
It  was  thought,  he  began  to  see,  and  not  feeling  that 
created  nearly  all  his  difficulties. 

In  a  flash  of  perception  he  grasped  that  formal 
thought,  in  its  aspect  of  right  conduct,  was  utterly 
opposed  to  feeling.  While  the  former  condemned  the 
surrender  of  Savina  and  himself  to  passion,  the  latter, 
making  it  imperative,  had  brushed  aside  the  barriers 
of  recognized  morals.  It  had  been  a  tragic,  it  might 
well  be  a  fatal,  error  to  oppose  religion — as  it  affected 
both  this  world  and  the  impossible  next — to  nature. 

[250] 


CYTHEREA 

Yet  men  could  no  longer  exist  as  animals ;  he  saw  that 
plainly.  They  had  surrendered  the  natural  in  favor 
of  an  artificial  purity.  In  a  land  where  sea  shells 
were  the  standard  of  value,  rubies  and  soft  gold  were 
worthless.  Lee  was  opposed  to  his  entire  world;  he 
had  nothing  but  his  questioning,  his  infinitesimal 
entity,  for  his  assistance.  Literally  there  wasn't  a 
man  to  whom  he  could  turn  whose  answer  and  advice 
weren't  a§  predictable  as  useless.  There  was  nothing 
for  him  but  to  accept  his  position  and,  discharging  it 
where  he  was  able,  fail  where  he  must. 

There  was,  however,  no  need  for  that  failure  to  be 
absolute;  and  the  underlying  responsibility  he  had 
fully  considered,  subject  to  its  own  attained  code, 
would  have  to  do  service  as  best  it  could.  Here  he 
paused  to  realize  that  the  improved  manners  he  had 
determined  on  were  no  more  than  the  expression  of  his 
growing,  his  grown,  indifference.  It  should  be  easy 
to  be  restrained  in  a  situation  that  had  small  meaning 
or  importance.  What  struck  him  again  was  the  fact 
that  his  connection  with  Fanny  was  of  far  greater 
moment  than  that  with  Helena  and  Gregory.  His 
responsibility  to  them  was  a  minor  affair  compared  to 
the  weight  increasingly  laid  upon  their  elders.  Some 
how,  they  didn't  seem  to  need  him  as  sharply  as  Fanny 
did.  Materially  they  were  all  three  more  than  suf 
ficiently  provided  for,  and  spiritually,  as  he  had  so 
often  reflected,  he  had  little  or  no  part  in  his  children's 
well-being.  Perhaps  this,  he  had  told  himself,  could 

[251] 


CYTHEREA 

be  changed ;  certainly  he  was  solely  to  blame  if  he  had 
stood  aside  from  their  education. 

He  would  see  more  of  them — four  days  a  week  were 
now  plenty  for  the  conducting  of  his  successful  enter 
prises  in  the  city — and  give  them  what  benefits  his 
affection  and  experience  held.  In  this  he  mustn't 
contradict  the  influence  of  their  mother;  that,  so  late, 
would  only  be  followed  by  chaos;  he'd  merely  be  more 
with  them.  Helena  was  old  enough  for.  a  small 
tractable  horse  and  Gregory  must  have  a  pony.  All 
four,  Fanny  and  he  and  the  children,  would  jog  out 
in  the  spring  together.  From  that  mental  picture  he 
got  a  measure  of  reassurance;  a  condition  resembling 
peace  of  mind  again  returned.  As  much  as  possible, 
against  the  elements  of  danger,  was  in  his  favor.  He 
might  have  had  a  wife  who,  on  the  ^prevalent  tide  of 
gin  and  orange  juice,  of  inordinate  luxuriousness,  de 
graded  him  with  small  betrayals.  Or  he  might  have 
been  any  one  of  a  hundred  unfortunate  things.  He 
took  life  too  seriously,  that  was  evident;  a  larger  de 
gree  of  mental  irresponsibility  would  be  followed  by 
a  more  responsible  accomplishment  of  the  realities 
which  bore  no  more  heavily  on  him  than  on  other  men ; 
and  in  this  the  cocktails  had  their  office. 

Lee  agreed  readily,  therefore,  when,  on  Friday 
afternoon,  Fanny  asked  him  to  bring  Helena  and 
Gregory  from  dancing-school.  This  was  held  in  the 
Armory;  and,  past  five  o'clock,  mounting  the  wide 

[252] 


CYTHEREA 

stone  steps  in  the  early  gloom  and  going  through  the 
bare  echoing  hall,  he  joined  the  complacent  mothers 
ranged  in  chairs  pushed  against  the  wall  in  a  spirit  of 
interested  attention.  The  Armory,  following  the  gen 
eral  literal  interpretation  of  the  sternness  of  military 
usage,  was  gaunt,  with  a  wide  yellow  floor  and  walls 
of  unconcealed  brick.  In  a  far  corner,  on  a  tempor 
ary  and  unpainted  platform,  the  pianist  sat  with  her 
hands  raised,  her  wrists  rigid,  preparatory  to  the  next 
demand  upon  her  strongly  accentuated  playing.  Lee 
was  surprised  at  the  large  number  of  children  ranged 
in  an  irregular  ring  about  the  erect  brittle  presence 
and  insistent  voice  of  the  instructor. 

What  scant  hair  he  possessed,  carefully  disposed  to 
cover  its  meagreness,  was  grey,  and  its  color  permeated, 
suggested,  the  tone  of  his  thin  face.  Surrounded  by 
the  cruel  exuberance  of  the  children,  he  seemed  incal 
culably  worn,  permanently  weary,  although  he  was 
surprisingly  sharp-eyed  and  adequate.  It  was,  Lee 
thought  unsympathetically,  a  curiously  negative  oc 
cupation  for  a  man;  the  small  graces  of  the  dancing 
teacher,  the  bows  gravely  exchanged  with  childish 
bows,  the  bent  dancing  with  diminutive  slips,  the  oc 
casional  fretful  tone  of  his  voice,  further  alienated  Lee 
Randon.  But  the  children  were  a  source  of  entertain 
ment  and  speculation. 

He  saw  Gregory  at  once,  short  and  sturdy-legged,  in 
a  belted  jacket  and  white  breeches ;  his  son  was  stand 
ing  peaceably,  attentive,  clasping  the  hand  of  a  girl 

[253] 


CYTHEREA 

smaller  than  himself  with  obstinate  bobbed  hair. 
This,  the  high  pointed  voice  in  the  center  of  the  floor 
continued,  was  an  Irish  folk  dance;  they  would  try  it 
again;  and  the  reiterated  details  were  followed  by  the 
sounding  of  a  whistle  and  music.  Lee  had  no  idea  of 
the  exact  number  of  children  engaged,  but  he  was  cer 
tain  that  there  were  just  as  many  totally  different 
executions  of  the  steps  before  them.  Not  one  had 
grasped  an  essential  of  the  carefully  illustrated  in 
struction  ;  he  could  see  nowhere  an  evidence  of  grace  or 
rhythm.  But,  with  a  few  notable  exceptions,  all  boys, 
there  was  an  entire  solemnity  of  effort;  the  swinging 
of  bare  short  legs,  the  rapid  awkward  bobs,  were 
undertaken  with  a  deep  sense  of  their  importance. 

The  Irish  folk  dance  was  attempted  for  a  third  time, 
and  then  relinquished  in  favor  of  a  waltz.  Miniature 
couples  circled  and  staggered,  the  girls  again  prim,  the 
boys  stolid  or  with  working  mouths,  or  as  smooth  and 
vacuous  as  chestnuts,  little  sailors  and  apparitions  in 
white,  obviously  enjoying  their  employment.  During 
this  not  a  word  was  exchanged;  except  for  the  shuf 
fling  feet,  the  piano,  an  occasional  phrase  of  encourage 
ment  from  the  instructor,  himself  gliding  with  a  dab 
of  fat  in  exaggerated  ribbons,  there  wasn't  a  sound. 
To  Lee  it  had  the  appearance  of  the  negation  of 
pleasure;  it  was,  in  its  way,  as  bad  as  the  determined 
dancing  of  adults;  it  had  the  look  of  a  travesty  of  that. 
Helena  conducted  a  restive  partner,  trying  vainly  to 
create  the  impression  that  he  was  leading,  wherever 

[254] 


CYTHEREA 

she  considered  it  advantageous  for  him  to  go.  The 
thick  flood  of  her  gold  hair  shimmered  about  her  un 
compromising  shoulders,  her  embroidered  skirt  flut 
tered  over  the  firmness  of  her  body. 

She  was  as  personable  a  little  girl  as  any  present; 
and,  while  she  hadn't  Gregory's  earnestness  in  what  he 
attempted,  she  got  on  smoothly  enough.  Seeing  Lee, 
she  smiled  and  waved  a  hand  almost  negligently;  but 
Gregory,  at  his  presence,  grew  visibly  embarrassed; 
he  almost  stopped.  Lee  Randon  nodded  for  him  to 
go  ahead.  There  were  various  minor  cataclysms — 
Helena  flatly  refused  to  dance  with  a  boy  who  pursued 
her  with  an  urging  hand.  At  this  conspicuous  reverse 
he  sat  on  a  chair  until  the  teacher  brought  him  forcibly 
out  and  precipitated  him  into  the  willing  arms  of  a 
girl  larger  and,  if  possible,  more  inelastic  than  the 
others.  The  ring  was  again  assembled,  and  the  com 
plicated  process  of  alternating  a  boy  with  a  girl  was 
accomplished. 

"Never  mind  what  he  does,"  the  instructor  directed 
sharply;  "always  be  sure  you  are  right."  A  shift  was 
made  further  around  in  the  line,  and  the  elder  wisdom 
was  vindicated.  "Now,  the  chain."  The  whistle 
blew.  "Left  and  right,  left  and  right."  In  spite  of 
this  there  was  an  equal  engagement  of  rights  with  lefts. 
The  assumption  of  gravity  acutely  bothered  Lee  Ran 
don:  they  had  no  business,  he  thought,  to  be  already 
such  social  animals.  Their  training  in  set  forms, 
mechanical  gestures  and  ideas,  was  too  soon  hardening 

[255] 


CYTHEREA 

their  mobility  and  instinctive  independence.  Yes, 
they  were  a  caricature  of  what  they  were  to  become. 
He  hadn't  more  sympathy  with  what  he  had  resolved 
to  encourage,  applaud,  but  less.  The  task  of  mak 
ing  any  headway  against  that  schooling  was  beyond 
him. 

The  dancing  reached  a  pause,  and,  with  it,  the 
silence:  a  confusion  of  clear  undiversified  voices  rose: 
the  face  of  an  infant  with  long  belled  trousers  and 
solidified  hair  took  on  a  gleam  of  impish  humor;  older 
and  more  robust  boys  scuffled  together  with  half-sub 
dued  hails  and  large  pretentions;  groups  of  girls 
settled  their  skirts  and  brushed,  with  instinctive  pats, 
their  braids  into  order;  and  there  was  a  murmur  of 
exchanged  approbation  from  the  supporting,  white- 
gloved  mothers.  Gregory  appeared  at  Lee's  side;  his 
cheeks  were  crimson  with  health,  his  serious  eyes 
glowed : 

" Well,  do  you  like  it?" 

"Yes,"  Gregory  answered  shyly.  He  lingered  while 
Lee  Randon  tried  to  think  of  something  else  appropri 
ate  to  say,  and  then  he  ran  abruptly  off.  His  children 
were  affectionate  enough,  but  they  took  him  absolutely 
for  granted ;  they  regarded  him  very  much  as  they  did 
their  cat;  except  for  the  conventional  obeisance  they 
made  him,  not  so  voluntary  as .  it  was  trained  into 
them,  they  were  far  more  involved  with  Martha,  their 
black  nurse.  Everywhere,  Lee  felt,  they  repelled  him. 
Was  he,  then,  lacking  in  the  qualities,  the  warmth, 

[256] 


CYTHEREA 

of  paternity?  Again,  as  he  was  helpless  where 
Fanny  lately  was  concerned,  he  was  unable  to  be 
other. 

It  was  increasingly  evident  that  he  had  not  been 
absorbed,  obliterated,  in  marriage;  an  institution 
which,  from  the  beginning,  had  tried — like  religion — 
to  hold  within  its  narrow  walls  the  unconfinable  in 
stincts  of  creation.  It  hadn't,  among  other  things,  con 
sidered  the  fascination  of  Cytherea ;  a  name,  a  tag,  as 
intelligible  as  any  for  all  his  dissent.  But  cases  like 
his  were  growing  more  prevalent;  however,  usually, 
in  women.  Men  were  the  last  stronghold  of  sentimen 
tality.  His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  dramatic 
rift  in  the  discipline  of  the  class:  a  boy,  stubbornly 
seated,  swollen,  crimson,  with  wrath  and  heroically 
withheld  tears,  was  being  vainly  argued  with  by  the 
dancing  master.  He  wouldn't  stir,  he  wouldn't  dance. 
The  man,  grasping  a  shoulder,  shook  him  in  a  short 
violence,  and  then  issued  a  final  uncompromising 
order. 

The  boy  rose  and,  marching  with  an  increasing 
rapidity  toward  the  entrance,  he  struck  aside  a  placid 
and  justifiably  injured  child,  dragged  open  the  door, 
and  slammed  it  after  him  with  a  prodigious  and  long 
echoing  report.  His  contempt,  holding  its  proportion 
in  the  reduced  propriety  of  the  occasion,  was  like  a 
clap  of  communistic  thunder  in  an  ultra-conservative 
assembly.  For  a  moment,  together  with  all  the  others, 
Lee  Randon  was  outraged;  then,  with  a  suppression  of 

[257] 


CYTHEREA 

his  unorderly  amusement,  he  had  a  far  different  con 
ception — he  saw  himself,  for  no  easily  established 
reason,  in  the  person  of  the  rebel  who  had  left  behind 
him  the  loud  announcement  of  his  angry  dissent. 
Helena  sought  Lee  immediately. 

"That's  his  mother,"  she  said  in  a  penetrating  whis 
per,  indicating  a  woman  with  a  resolutely  abstracted 
expression  and  constrained  hands.  The  children  were 
gathered  finally  and  formed  into  a  line  which,  to  the 
drumming  piano,  moved  and  halted,  divided  and  sub 
divided.  Led  by  the  instructor  it  was  involved  in  an 
apparently  issueless  tangle  and  then  straightened 
smoothly  out.  The  dancing  class  at  an  end,  Helena 
and  Gregory,  wedged  into  the  seat  with  Lee  in  the  car, 
swept  into  an  eager  chatter,  a  rush  of  questions,  that 
he  was  unable  to  follow.  A  Sara  Lane  was  announced 
by  Helena  to  be  the  object  of  Gregory's  affection,  and 
Gregory  smugly  admitted  this  to  be  true.  He  was 
going  to  marry  her,  he  declared  further. 

"Perhaps,"  Lee  suggested,  "you'll  change  your 
mind." 

"Why,  Gregory  has  four  girls,"  Helena  instructed 
him. 

"Well,"  Gregory  retorted,  "I  can  marry  them  all." 

But  what,  under  this  reflected  chatter,  was  his  son 
like?  What  would  he  be?  And  Helena!  They 
eluded  him  like  bright  and  featureless  bits  of  glass. 
His  effort  to  draw  closer  to  them  was  proving  a  fail 
ure;  what  could  he  give  them  safer  than  their  attach- 

[258] 


CYTHEREA 

ment  to  the  imponderable  body  of  public  opinion  and 
approval  ?  He  had  nothing  but  doubts,  unanswerable 
questions;  and  a  mental,  a  moral,  isolation.  It  was 
easier  to  remain  in  the  dancing  class  than  to  be  sent 
out  in  an  agony  of  revolt  and  strangling  shame. 

Often,  during  his  conversations  with  Fanny,  she  re 
turned  to  the  subject  of  his  late  New  York  trip  and 
stay  with  the  Groves.  She  asked  small  interested 
questions,  commented  on  the  lavish  running  of  the 
Grove  house;  she  couldn't,  she  explained,  get  nectar 
ines  and  Belgian  grapes  in  Eastlake;  but  when  she 
was  in  the  city  again  she'd  bring  some  out.  "Mina 
Raff's  limousine  sounds  luxurious,"  she  acknowledged. 
But  Fanny  wasn't  curious  about  Mina;  after  the  first 
queries  she  accepted  her  placidly;  now  that  she  had 
withdrawn  from  the  Morrises'  lives,  Fanny  regarded 
her  in  the  light  of  a  past  episode  that  cast  them  all 
together  on  a  romantic  screen.  What  mostly  she 
asked  touched  upon  Savina  Grove.  "Did  they  seem 
happy?"  she  inquired  about  the  Groves.  He  replied: 

"Very.  William  Grove  was  quite  affectionate  when 
he  left  for  Washington." 

A  momentary  and  ominous  suspense  followed  a  sud 
den  stopping  of  his  voice. 

"You  didn't  say  anything  about  that  before,"  she 
observed  carefully.  "When  did  he  go,  how  long  was 
he  away?"  She  put  aside  what  she  was  doing,  wait 
ing. 

[259] 


CYTHEREA 

"He  left  unexpectedly;  just  when  I  forget;  but 
during  the  last  day  I  was  there." 

"Lee, why  didn't  you  say  that  Mr.  Grove  had  gone 
to  Washington?  It  seems  very  peculiar." 

"I  told  you  it  had  slipped  my  mind,"  he  retorted, 
striving,  in  a  level  tone,  to  hide  his  chagrin  and  an 
increasing  irritation  at  her  persistence. 

"When  did  he  come  back?" 

"I  don't  know."  Suddenly  he  gave  way  to  a  com 
plete  frankness.  "He  may  not  be  back  yet." 

"Then  you  had  dinner  at  the  restaurant  and  went  to 
the  theatre  alone  with  her." 

"If  it's  possible  to  be  alone  with  anyone,  you  are 
correct.  What,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  are  you  get 
ting  at?" 

"Only  this — that,  for  some  reason  I  can't  gather, 
you  lied  to  me.  I  have  had  the  most  uncomfortable 
impression  about  her  all  along.  Why?"  Her  de 
mand  had  a  quality  of  unsteady  emotion.  "I  have 
been  so  close  to  you,  Lee,  we  have  had  each  other  so 
completely,  that  I  have  feelings  I  can't  account  for. 
I  always  know  when — when  you've  been  a  little  silly; 
there  is  something  in  your  eyes;  but  I  have  never  felt 
like  this  before.  Lee,"  she  leaned  suddenly  forward, 
her  hands  clasping  the  sides  of  her  chair,  "you  must 
be  absolutely  truthful  with  me,  it's  the  only  way  I  can 
live.  I  love  you  so  much;  you're  all  I  have;  I  don't 
care  for  anyone  else  now.  You  have  taken  me  away 
from  my  family;  you  are  my  family.  Ours  isn't  an 

[260] 


CYTHEREA 

ordinary   marriage,    like    the   Lucians',    but    worlds 
deeper." 

Yet,  he  told  himself,  in  spite  of  her  assurances  the 
truth  would  ruin  them;  besides,  as  he  had  recognized, 
it  didn't  belong  exclusively  to  him;  it  was,  as  well, 
Savina's  truth.  At  any  cost  he  had  to  protect  her. 
Lee  replied  by  saying  that  it  was  useless  to  tell  her 
facts  in  her  present  unreasonable  humor.  "Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  he  had  gone  to  Washington?"  she 
repeated;  her  tone  had  a  sharper  edge.  "Was  there 
anything  you  needed  to  hide?"  Just  what,  he  de 
manded,  did  she  suspect?  Fanny  didn't  know. 

"Only  I  have  had  this  worrying  feeling.  Did  you 
go  straight  back  from  the  theatre  or  take  a  drive?" 
He  was  amazed  at  her  searching  prescient  questions ; 
but  his  manner  was  admirable. 

"New  Yorkers  are  not  very  apt  to  drive  around 
their  Park  at  night.  They  are  rather  familiar  with  it. 
There's  the  afternoon  for  that,  and  the  morning  for 
the  bridle  paths.  I  won't  go  on,  though,  in  such  a 
senseless  and  positively  insulting  conversation." 

"You  are  not  yourself  since  you  returned,"  she  ob 
served  acutely.  "Sunday  night  you  were  too  queer 
for  words.  You  couldn't  talk  to  Mrs.  Craddock  for 
more  than  a  minute  at  a  time.  Did  you  call  her 
Savina?"  Mrs.  Craddock's  name,  he  responded  in  a 
nicely  interrogating  manner,  he  had  thought  to  be 
Laura.  She  paid  no  attention  to  his  avoidance  of  her 
demand.  "Did  you?" 

[261] 


CYTHEREA 

"No."     His  self-restraint  was  fast  vanishing. 

"I  can't  believe  a  word  you  say." 

"Hell,  don't  ask  me  then." 

"You  must  not  curse  where  the  servants  can  hear 
you,  and  I  won't  listen  to  such  talk,  I'll  leave  the  table. 
I  wish  you'd  look  in  the  mirror  and  see  how  red  and 
confused  you  are.  It  is  too  bad  that  I  cannot  depend 
on  you  after  so  long,  and  with  the  children.  You 
were  sitting  cldse  to  that  woman,  and — and  your  arms; 
you  were  kissing." 

"I  have  her  garter  on  my  bureau." 

''Stop."  Her  anger  now  raised  her  above  petty 
sallies.  "I  have  stood  a  great  deal  from  you,  but 
there  is  more  I  simply  won't.  Do  you  understand? 
I've  always  done  my  duty  and  I'll  make  you  do  yours. 
I  never  have  looked  at  another  man,  nor  been  kissed, 
except  that  horrid  one  last  July  at  the  Golf  Club." 
While  she  paused,  breathless,  he  put  in  that  it  might 
do  her  good.  "Oh,  I  see,"  she  spoke  slowly:  "you 
think  that  would  give  you  an  excuse.  If  I  did  it  I 
couldn't  complain  about  your  nasty  affairs.  How 
cheap  and  easy  I  must  seem.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  try  to  trick  me." 

"If  you  are  going  to  fly  at  conclusions  you  can  sit 
in  the  tree  alone,"  he  protested.  "It's  amazing  where 
you  have  arrived  from  nothing.  Let  me  tell  you  that 
I  won't  be  ragged  like  this;  if  you  think  so  much  of 
our  life  why  do  you  make  it  hideous  with  these  de 
grading  quarrels?  You  would  never  learn  that  way 

[262] 


CYTHEREA 

if  there  was  the  slightest,  the  slightest,  cause  for  your 
bitterness.  You  have  all  you  want,  haven't  you? 
The  house  and  grounds  are  planted  with  your  flowers, 
you  are  bringing  up  the  children  to  be  like  yourself. 
I  don't  specially  care  for  this,"  he  made  a  comprehen 
sive  gesture;  "building  an  elaborate  place  to  die  in 
doesn't  appeal  to  me.  What  is  so  valuable,  so  neces 
sary,  to  you,  I  never  think  of.  You  are  so  full  of 
your  life  that  you  don't  consider  mine,  except  where  it 
is  tied  up  with  your  interests." 

"Lee  Randon,"  she  cried,  "I've  given  you  every 
thing,  it's  all  planned  for  you,  here.  Nothing  comes 
on  the  table  that  you  dislike — we  haven't  had  beef 
steak  for  months ;  when  you  are  busy  with  your  papers 
I  keep  it  like  a  grave ;  and  if  the  house  seems  cold,  and 
I  can't  find  Christopher,  I  don't  bother  you,  but  slip 
down  to  the  furnace  myself." 

"Make  me  uncomfortable,  then,"  he  retorted;  "I 
think  that's  what  I'm  sick  of — your  eternal  gabbling 
about  comfort  and  dinner.  Let  the  God  damn  furnace 
go  out!  Or  burn  up." 

"That's  all  I  have,  Lee,"  she  said  helplessly;  "it  is 
my  life.  I  tried,  the  last  month,  to  be  different,  after 
watching  you  with  gayer  women ;  but  it  only  made  me 
miserable;  I  kept  wondering  if  Gregory  was  covered 
up  and  if  the  car  would  start  when  you  wanted  to  go 
home.  But  I  won't  be  sorry  for  it."  Her  head  was 
up,  her  cheeks  blazing.  "I  know,  and  so  ought  you, 
what  being  good  is.  And  if  you  forget  it  you  will 

[263]  * 


CYTHEREA 

have  a  dreadful  misfortune.  God  is  like  that :  He'll 
punish  you." 

"You  don't  need  help,"  he  commented  brutally. 

Detached  tears  rolled  over  her  cheeks.  "I  won't 
cry,"  she  contradicted  the  visible  act;  "I  won't.  You 
take  such  a  cowardly  advantage  of  me." 

The  advantage,  he  reflected,  was  entirely  on  her  side. 
Within,  he  was  hard,  he  had  no  feeling  of  sympathy 
for  her;  the  division  between  them  was  absolute. 
With  an  angry  movement  she  brushed  the  tears  from 
her  cheeks.  "I  hate  her,"  she  said  viciously;  "she  is 
a  rotten  detestable  woman." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  replied,  "Mrs.  Grove,  if  you 
happen  to  mean  her,  is  singularly  attractive.  There 
is  no  smallness  about  her." 

"Hell,"  she  mocked  him,  "it  is  really  too  touching. 
When  shall  you  see  her  again?" 

"Never."  At  once  he  saw  that  he  had  made  a 
second  mistake. 

"How  sad — never;  I  can't  bear  it.  You  both 
must  have  been  wretched  at  that  long  hopeless  parting. 
And  she  agreed  to  let  you  go — back  to  your  wife  and 
children."  Fanny's  voice  was  a  triumph  of  contempt. 
"I  ought  to  thank  her;  or  be  magnanimous  and  send 
you  back." 

"This  is  all  built  on  a  ridiculous  assumption,"  Lee 
reminded  her;  "I  even  forget  how  we  started.  Sup 
pose  we  talk  about  something  else;  Mrs.  Grove,  as 
a  topic,  is  pretty  well  exhausted."  Fanny,  narrow- 

[264] 


CYTHEREA 

eyed,  relapsed  into  an  intent  silence.  She  faded  from 
his  mind,  her  place  taken  by  Savina.  Immediately 
he  was  conscious  of  a  quickening  of  his  blood,  the 
disturbed  throb  of  his  heart;  the  memory  of  delirious 
hours  enveloped  him  in  a  feverish  mist  more  real  than 
his  wife  sitting  before  him  with  a  drawn  brow. 

Usually  after  such  scenes  Fanny  had  flowered  in  a 
tender  remorse  for  their  bitter  remarks,  the  wasted 
opportunity  of  happiness;  but  again  she  left  him 
coldly,  unmelted.  He  was  glad — a  show  of  affection 
would  have  been  unsupportable.  But  his  marriage 
was  becoming  precarious;  Lee  seemed  to  be  without 
power  to  execute  his  firm  intentions;  a  conviction  of 
insecurity  settled  over  him.  The  sense  of  a  familiar 
difficulty  returned;  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do 
but  order  his  life  on  a  common  pattern  and  face  an 
unrelieved  futility  of  years.  He  remembered,  with 
a  grim  amusement,  the  excellent  advice  he  had  given 
Peyton  Morris,  Peyton  at  the  verge  of  falling  from  the 
approved  heights  into  the  unpredictable.  If  he  had 
come  to  him  now  in  that  quandary,  what  would  he, 
Lee,  have  said?  Yet  all  that  he  had  told  Peyton  he 
still  believed — the  variety  of  life  lay  on  the  circular 
moving  horizon,  there  was  none  at  hand.  But  now 
he  comprehended  the  unmeasurable  longing  that  had, 
for  the  time,  banished  every  other  consideration  from 
the  younger  man.  It  had  upset  his  heredity,  his 
violent  prejudices,  and  his  not  negligible  religion. 

[265] 


CYTHEREA 

Peyton,  too,  had  fallen  under  the  charm  of  Cytherea; 
but  chance — was  it  fortunate? — had  restrained  him. 
Lee  had  seen  Morris  the  evening  before,  at  a  dinner 
with  Claire,  and  he  had  been  silent,  abstracted.  He 
had  scarcely  acknowledged  Lee  Randon's  presence. 
The  Morrises  had  avoided  him.  Still,  that  was  in 
evitable,  since,  for  them,  he  wa-s  charged  with  un 
pleasant  memories. 

He  collected  in  thought  all  the  married  people  who, 
he  knew,  were  unhappy  or  dissatisfied :  eleven  of  the 
eighteen  Lee  called  to  mind.  "What  is  the  matter 
with  it?"  he  demanded  savagely,  aloud,  in  his  room. 
He  considered  marriage — isolated  for  that  purpose 
— as  a  social  contract,  the  best  possible  solving  of 
a  number  of  interrelated  needs  and  instincts;  and, 
practical  and  grey,  it  recommended  itself  to  his  reason ; 
it  successfully  disposed  of  the  difficulties  of  property, 
the  birth  and  education  of  children,  and  of  society. 
It  was  a  sane,  dignified,  wary  to  live  with  a  woman; 
and  it  secured  so  much.  Undoubtedly,  on  that  count, 
marriage  couldn't  be  bettered.  As  it  was,  it  satisfied 
the  vast  majority  of  men  and  women:  against  the 
bulk  of  human  life  Fanny  and  he,  with  their  friends, 
were  inconsiderable.  But  the  number  of  men  who 
struggled  above  the  common  level  was  hardly  greater; 
and  he  and  his  opinions  were  of  that  preferable  minor 
ity.  The  freedom  of  money,  the  opportunities  of 
leisure,  always  led  directly  away  from  what  were 
called  the  indispensable  virtues. 

[266] 


CYTHEREA 

Men — he  returned  to  the  Eastlake  streets  on  Satur 
day  night — except  those  lost  in  the  monomania  of 
a  dream,  didn't  want  to  work,  they  didn't  even  wish 
to  be  virtuous.  They  turned  continually  to  the  by 
paths  of  pleasure,  that  self-delusion  and  forgetfulness 
of  drink.  Yes,  released  from  the  tyrannies  of  poverty, 
they  flung  themselves  into  a  swift  spending.  The 
poor  were  more  securely  married  than  the  rich,  the 
dull  than  the  imaginative — married,  he  meant,  in  the 
sense  of  a  forged  bond,  a  stockade.  This  latter  con 
dition  had  been  the  result  of  allowing  the  church  to 
interfere  unwarrantedly  in  what  was  not  its  affair. 
Religion  had  calmly  usurped  this,  the  most  potent  of 
the  motives  of  humanity;  or,  rather,  it  had  fastened 
to  it  the  ludicrous  train  of  ritual.  That  laughable 
idea  that  God  had  a  separate  scrutinizing  eye,  like 
the  eye  of  a  parrot,  on  every  human  atom! 

Lee  changed  his  position,  physically  and  mentally 
— he  was  lying  in  bed — and  regarded  religion  in  itself. 
It  was,  in  the  hunger  for  a  perpetual  identity,  almost 
as  strong  a  force  as  the  other  passion.  But  were  they 
conspicuously  other?  They  had  many  resemblances. 
He  didn't,  by  religion,  refer  to  Christianity  which, 
he  thought,  was  but  a  segregated  and  weakened  form 
of  worship.  It  was,  for  example,  against  the  Chris 
tian  influence  that  he  was  struggling.  He  meant  the 
sense  of  profound  mystery,  the  revolt  against  utter 
causelessness,  which  had  tormented  to  no  clearness  so 
many  generations  of  minds.  He  accepted  the  fact  that 

[267] 


CYTHEREA 

a  formless  longing  was  all  that  he  could  ever  ex 
perience  ;  for  him,  uncritically,  that  seemed  enough ;  he 
had  willingly  relinquished  any  hope  of  an  eternity 
like  a  white  frosted  cake  set  with  twinkling  candles. 
But  viewed  as  a  tangible  force  operating  here  and  now, 
identical — to  return  to  his  main  preoccupation — with 
love,  it  demanded  some  settled  intelligence  of  com 
prehension. 

What  he  wanted,  he  was  drawn  bolt  upright  as 
if  by  an  inner  shout,  was  an  'assurance  that  could 
be  depended  on,  that  wouldn't  break  and  break  and 
leave  him  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  inscrutable 
mockery.  He  wanted  to  understand  himself,  and, 
in  that,  Fanny  and  the  children  .  .  .  and  Savina. 
Obviously  they  were  all  bound  together  in  one  destiny, 
by  a  single  cause.  Why  had  he  stopped  loving  Fanny 
and  had  no  regret — but  a  sharp  gladness — in  his 
adultery  with  Savina?  He  discarded  the  qualifying 
word  as  soon  as  it  had  occurred  to  him:  there  was  no 
adultery,  adulteration,  in  his  act  with  Savina;  it  had 
filled  him  with  an  energy,  a  mental  and  nervous  vigor, 
long  denied  to  the  sanctified  bed  of  marriage.  He 
wanted  not  even  to  be  justified,  but  only  an  explana 
tion  of  what  he  was ;  and  he  waited,  his  hands  pressed 
into  the  softness  of  the  mattress  on  either  side  of  him, 
as  if  the  salvation  of  some  reply  might  come  into  his 
aching  brain.  Nothing,  of  course,  broke  the  deep 
reasonable  stillness  of  the  night.  He  slipped  back  on 
his  pillow  weary  and  baffled. 

[268] 


CYTHEREA 

There,  to  defraud  his  misery,  he  deliberately  sum 
moned  the  memory  of  Savina,  and  of  delirious  hours. 
She  came  swiftly,  with  convulsive  shoulders,  fingers 
drawn  down  over  his  body;  he  heard  her  little  cry, 
"Ah!"  How  changed  her  voice  had  been  when  she 
said,  "I  love  you."  It  had  had  no  apparent  connection 
with  the  moment,  their  actual  passion.  It  had  dis 
turbed  him  with  the  suggestion  of  a  false,  a  forced, 
note.  In  a  situation  of  the  utmost  accomplishable 
reality  it  had  been  vague,  meaningless.  I  love  you. 
It  was  a  strange  phrase,  at  once  empty  and  burdened 
with  illimitable  possibilities.  He  had  said  it  times 
without  number  to  Fanny,  but  first — how  seductively 
virginal  she  had  been — on  a  veranda  at  night.  Then, 
though  not  quite  for  the  first  time,  he  had  kissed  her. 
And  suddenly  her  reserve,  her  protecting  chastity,  had 
gone  out  of  her  forever. 

When  had  the  other,  all  that  eventually  led  to 
Savina,  begun ;  when  had  he  lost  his  love  ?  A  long 
process  of  turning  from  precisely  the  orderly  details 
which,  he  had  decided,  should  make  marriage  safe. 
He  was  back  where  he  had  started — the  realization 
of  how  men  deserted  utility  for  visions,  at  the  enig 
matic  smile  of  Cytherea.  A  sterile  circle.  Some  men 
called  it  heaven,  others  found  hell.  His  mental 
searching,  surrounded,  met,  by  nullity,  he  regarded 
as  his  supreme  effort  in  the  direction  of  sheer  duty. 
If  whoever  had  it  in  command  chose  to  run  the  world 
blindly,  unintelligibly,  in  a  manner  that  would  soon 

[269] 


CYTHEREA 

wreck  the  strongest  concern,  he  wasn't  going  to  keep 
on  annoying  himself  with  doubts  and  the  dictates  of 
a  senseless  conscience.  What,  as  soon  as  possible, 
he'd  do  was  fall  asleep. 

The  crowing  of  a  rooster  pierced  the  thinning  night, 
a  second  answered  the  first,  and  they  maintained  a 
long  self-glorifying,  separated  duet.  The  wind  which 
had  been  flowing  in  at  the  north  window  changed  to 
the  south-west. 

The  difficulties  of  his  living  with  Fanny  increased 
the  next  morning:  it  was  one  of  the  week-days  when 
he  didn't  go  into  town  after  breakfast.  He  was 
dressed  for  riding,  his  horse  was  at  the  door,  when, 
without  previous  announcement  and  unprepared,  she 
decided  to  go  with  him.  He  could  hear  her  hurrying 
upstairs — it  upset  her  unreasonably  to  rush — and  sud 
denly,  with  the  audible  fall  of  a  boot  on  the  floor, 
there  was  the  unmistakable  sound  of  sobbing. 

Lee  went  up,  half  impatient  and  half  comprehend 
ing,  and  found  her  seated  on  a  bed,  leaning  her  head 
in  an  arm  on  the  foot-board.  "Don't  wait  for  me," 
she  cried  in  a  smothered  voice;  "it  makes  you  so 
nervous.  Just  go;  it  doesn't  matter  what  I  do. 
You've — you've  shown  me  that.  Oh,  dear,  I  am  so 
miserable.  Everything  was  right  and  so  happy,  and 
now  it's  all  wrong." 

"Nonsense,"  he  replied  tonically;  "it  will  take 
Christopher  a  few  minutes  to  get  your  saddle  on.  I'll 
be  outside."  Mounted  and  waiting  for  her,  his  horse 

[270] 


CYTHEREA 

stepping  contrarily  over  the  grass  beyond  the  drive, 
he  didn't  care  whether  she  came  or  stayed.  When  she 
appeared  her  eyes,  prominent  now  rather  than  strik 
ing,  were  reddened,  and  the  hastily  applied  paint  and 
powder  were  unbecomingly  streaked  with  some  late 
irrepressible  tears. 

When  they  had  returned,  and  through  lunch  and 
after,  a  not  unfamiliar  stubborn  silence  settled  over 
Fanny.  When  she  spoke  it  was  with  an  armor-like 
sarcasm  protecting  and  covering  her  feelings.  He 
was  continually  surprised  at  the  correctness  of  her 
attitude  toward  Savina;  his  wife  could  know  nothing; 
she  was  even  without  the  legitimate  foundation  of  a 
suspicion ;  but  her  bearing  had  a  perceptible  f rostiness 
of  despair.  What,  he  wondered  moodily,  would  next, 
immediately,  develop?  Something,  certainly — Fanny's 
accumulations  of  emotion  were  always  sharply  dis 
charged  ;  they  grew  in  silence  but  they  were  expended 
in  edged  words. 

In  a  way  he  was  glad  that  he  had  made  the  error 
of  speaking  about  William  Grove's  absence  in  Wash 
ington  :  it  was  a  step  toward  a  final  resolution,  a  tran- 
quilization,  of  the  pressure  at  home.  He  didn't  know 
what  would  bring  it  up,  possibly  a  storm  surpassing 
in  violence  all  that  had  preceded  it;  and  then  .  .  . 
the  open  prospect  of  old  age.  Fanny  should  not 
actually  learn  of  the  occurrence  in  New  York,  there 
must  be  no  mistake  about  that ;  she  would  act  on  the 

[271] 


CYTHEREA 

supposition  that  he  had  been  merely  indulging  in  a 
more  or  less  advanced  dallying;  but  her  patience  in 
that,  he  judged,  was  at  an  end.  Well,  he  could  ulti 
mately,  in  all  sincerity,  agree  with  her  there.  Not  too 
soon,  of  course,  for  she  was  at  present  deeply  sus 
picious  of  such  protestations;  he  would  maintain  for 
a  short  while  longer  an  appearance  of  annoyance, 
his  old  successful  indignations  at  her  minor  charges, 
and  then  let  her  see  that  she  had  nothing  left  to  combat 
from  that  quarter. 

But  how,  in  the  other  implications  of  such  a  scene, 
would  he  act?  Until  now  his  part  in  the  inevitable 
frictions  of  matrimony  had  been  conditioned  by  a 
tenderness  toward  Fanny  and  a  measurable  support 
ing  belief  that  he  was  generally  to  blame.  She  had 
reduced  him  to  the  compounding  of  excuses;  after  her 
attack,  drawing  away,  she  had  managed  to  make  him 
follow  her.  Not  cheaply,  with  the  vulgarity  of  a  gift, 
a  price  outheld,  but  with  the  repeated  assertions  of 
his  endless  love.  Nothing  less  satisfied  her.  In  this 
she  was  superior.  But,  even  if  he  surrendered  his 
life  to  the  effort,  could  he  keep  up  that  pretence  of 
a  passion  unimpaired?  And  had  he,  Lee  asked  him 
self  over  and  over,  the  wish,  the  patience,  for  that 
heavy  undertaking? 

It  was  still  fairly  evident  that  he  hadn't.  All  that 
he  could  hope  for,  which  they  both  could  summon, 
was  luck  and  the  deadening  hands  of  time.  He  told 
himself,  here,  that  it  was  more  than  probable  that  he 

[272] 


CYTHEREA 

was  exaggerating  the  proportions  of  the  whole  situa 
tion — Fanny  had  been  angry  before;  her  resentment 
faded  the  sooner  for  its  swift  explosive  character.  But 
this  assurance  was  unconvincing;  his  presentiment, 
which  didn't  rest  on  reason,  was  not  amenable  to  a 
reasonable  conclusion.  Of  this  he  was  certain,  that 
Fanny  never  had  harbored  the  suspicion  of  what,  for 
her,  would  be  the  very  worst.  Did  she  know?  If 
she  did,  he  decided,  it  was  only  in  the  form  of  an 
unanalyzed,  unidentified,  feeling.  She  wasn't  a  cow 
ard.  His  determination  to  keep  smooth,  by  mere 
politeness,  the  further  course  of  their  marriage  seemed 
frivolous.  That  might  do,  it  was  even  indispensable, 
when  the  present  corner  was  turned;  but  for  the 
moment — 

What,  in  the  name  of  God,  had  got  into  her?  He 
grew  increasingly  irritated  at  her  arbitrary  manner. 
Lee  had  kept  forgetting  that,  where  Fanny  was  con 
cerned,  it  was  causeless,  or  no  better  than  a  wild  sur 
mise,  a  chance  thrust  at  random.  He  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  wouldn't  submit  to  a  great  deal  of  her 
bad  humor.  And,  in  this  spirit,  he  ignored  a  query 
put  to  him  bitingly : 

"Where  is  the  paper  cutter?" 

His  gaze  remained  level  on  the  page  before  him. 

"Didn't  you  hear  me,  Lee?  I  want  the  paper  cut 
ter.  If  it's  on  your  night  table,  get  it." 

"Let  Amanda  go  up." 

"She's  out.  I  let  both  the  girls  go  tonight.  But 
[273] 


CYTHEREA 

I  needn't  explain."  She  sat  expectantly  upright. 
Obliterating  his  cigarette,  he  returned,  without  mov 
ing,  to  the  magazine.  Then  he  raised  his  head: 

"You  can't  hope  for  much  from  that  tone  of  voice." 

"I'll  always  insist  on  your  showing  me  some  cour 
tesy.  I  can't  imagine  what  you  think  I  am.  You 
lie  to  me  as  though  I  were  a  school-girl  and  you  haven't 
even  common  good  manners.  That  trip  to  New  York 
— I'll  hear  the  truth  about  it.  Anyone  could  tell  it 
was  serious  by  the  effect  it  had  on  you.  Put  down 
your  magazine,  you  might  as  well;  you  can't  keep 
on  behind  it  forever.  Why  did  you  try  to  hide  that 
Mrs.  Grove  and  you  were  alone?" 

"To  stop  all  this!"  He  dropped  the  magazine 
upon  the  floor.  "To  save  my  nerves  and  the  noise 
of  your  eternal  questions.  I  knew,  if  you  found  out, 
what  would  follow;  this  isn't  the  first  time." 

"You  can't  be  completely  trusted,"  she  replied.  "I 
have  always  had  to  worry  and  hold  you  up.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  me — but  there  is  no  use  in  going  into 
that.  You  must  tell  me  about  the  Grove  woman." 

"At  one  time  it  was  Mrs.  Grove,"  he  observed; 
"now  it  is  'the  Grove  woman.'  What  will  you  call 
her  next?" 

"You  will  have  to  tell  me  that,"  Fanny  said.  "Lee 
Randon,  what  must  I  call  her?" 

"Perhaps,  if  you  knew  her,  you'd  try  Savina." 

"Not  if  it  was  to  save  me  from  dying.  But  I  have 
no  doubt  of  which  you  preferred.  Did  you?" 

[274] 


CYTHEREA 

"Did  I  what?"  He  was  aware  that  his  speech  was 
growing  far  louder  than  necessary. 

"Call  her  Savina." 

"Yes!"  He  sat  glaring  at  her  in  an  anger  which 
he  felt  swelling  his  neck. 

Fanny's  expression  was  obscure.  At  his  admis 
sion  she  had  shivered,  as  though  it  had  reached  her 
in  the  form  of  an  actually  threatened  violence,  and 
then  she  was  rigid.  "I  knew  that,  all  the  while." 
Her  voice  was  low,  with  a  pause  between  the  words. 
"Savina";  she  repeated  the  name  experimentally. 
"Very  pretty.  Prettier  to  say  than  Fanny;  yes,  and 
newer.  And,  having  called  her  that,  you  couldn't 
very  well  not  kiss  her,  could  you?" 

However,  his  caution  had  again  asserted  itself  over 
the  dangers  of  a  lost  temper.  "You  have  made  so 
much  of  this  up  that  you  had  better  finish  it  your 
self.  Put  what  end  you  prefer  on  it;  you  don't  need 
help." 

"The  end,"  she  echoed,  in  a  strange  and  smothered 
voice.  "Is  this  it?  But  not  yet." 

Lee's  gaze  rested  on  the  magazine  lying  spread  half 
on  the  Eastern  symbolism  of  a  rug  and  half  on  the 
bare  polished  flooring.  "Your  story  is  far  more  inter 
esting  than  any  in  that,"  he  commented,  with  a  gesture. 
"It's  a  pity  you  haven't  turned  your  imagination  to 
a  better  use."  This,  he  recognized,  could  not  go  on 
indefinitely.  Fanny  added: 

"But  I  was  wrong — you'd  kiss  her  before  you  said 
[275] 


CYTHEREA 

Savina.  That,  I  believe,  is  the  way  it  works.  It  is 
really  screaming  when  you  think  what  you  went  to 
New  York  for — to  protect  Claire,  to  keep  Peyton  Mor 
ris  out  of  Mina  Raff's  hands.  And,  apparently,  you 
succeeded  but  got  in  badly  yourself.  What  a  pair 
of  hypocrites  you  were:  all  the  while  worse  than  the 
others,  who  were  at  least  excused  by  their  youngness, 
ever  could  dream  of  being.  What  was  the  good  of 
your  contradicting  me  at  first?  I  knew  all  along. 
I  felt  it." 

"What  was  it,  exactly,  that  you  felt?"  he  asked 
with  an  assumption  of  calmness. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  acknowledged,  for  the 
moment  at  a  loss.  "It  was  inside  me,  like  lead.  But, 
whatever  happened,  it  will  come  out;  it  always  does; 
and  you'll  be  sorry." 

Did  the  truth,  he  wondered,  always  appear,  and 
triumph  over  the  false;  was  that  precept  of  morality 
secure  for  those  who  depended  on  it?  And,  as  Fanny 
threatened,  would  he  be  sorry?  But  most  assuredly 
he  would,  for  three  reasons — Savina,  Fanny,  and  him 
self;  there  might,  even,  be  two  more,  Helena  and 
Gregory;  yes,  and  William  Loyd  Grove.  What  a 
stinking  mess  it  was  all  turning  out  to  be.  Why 
wasn't  life,  why  weren't  women,  reasonable?  But  he 
could  not  convince  himself  that  anything  final — a 
separation — threatened  them.  Fanny  couldn't  force 
an  admission  from  him,  nor  speak  of  this,  investigate 
it,  anywhere  else.  Savina  was  well  able  to  take  care 

[276] 


CYTHEREA 

of  herself.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  In 
the  process  of  that  he  once  more  picked  up  the  mag 
azine.  Fanny  said  unexpectedly: 

"I  ordered  your  Christmas  present.  It  took  all  the 
money  I  had  in  the  Dime  Savings  Bank."  He  mut 
tered  a  phrase  to  the  effect  that  Christmas  was  a  season 
for  children.  This  recalled  his  own — they  wouldn't 
be  asleep  yet — and,  to  escape  temporarily  from  an 
impossible  situation,  to  secure  the  paper  knife,  he 
went  up  to  see  them. 

They  greeted  him  vociferously:  before  he  could  turn 
on  the  light  they  were  partly  out  of  the  covers,  and 
the  old  argument  about  whose  bed  he  should  sit  on 
in  full  progress.  Helena's  was  by  the  door,  so,  re 
turning  her  to  the  warmth  of  her  blankets,  he  stopped 
beside  her.  The  room,  with  the  windows  fully  open, 
was  cold,  but  he  welcomed  the  white  frozen  purity  of 
its  barrenness.  More  than  ever  he  was  impressed  by 
the  remoteness  of  the  children's  bed-room  from  the 
passionate  disturbances  of  living;  but  they,  in  the 
sense  Fanny  and  he  knew,  weren't  alive  yet.  They 
imitated  the  accents  and  concerns,  caught  at  the  ges 
tures,  of  maturity;  but,  even  in  the  grip  of  beginning 
instincts,  they  were  hardly  more  sentient  than  the 
figures  of  a  puppet  show.  Or,  perhaps,  their  world 
was  so  far  from  his  that  they  couldn't  be  said  to  span 
from  one  to  the  other.  Gregory,  in  mind,  was  no  more 
like  him  than  a  slip  was  like  a  tree  bearing  fruit — 

[277] 


CYTHEREA 

no  matter  how  bitter.  Helena  more  nearly  resembled 
her  mother ;  that  had  never  occurred  to  him  before. 

It  was  undoubtedly  true — her  posturing  recalled  the 
feminine  attitude  in  extreme  miniature.  In  that  he 
felt  outside  her  sympathy,  she  belonged  with  her 
mother;  to  Gregory  he  was  far  more  nearly  allied. 
Gregory,  anyhow,  had  the  potentialities  of  his  own 
dilemma;  he  might,  in  years  to  come,  be  drawn  out 
of  a  present  reality  by  the  enigma,  the  fascination,  of 
Cytherea.  Lee  Randon  hoped  not;  he  wanted  to  ad 
vise  him,  at  once,  resolutely  to  close  his  eyes  to  all 
visions  beyond  the  horizon  of  wise  practicability. 
Marry,  have  children,  be  faithful,  die,  he  said;  but, 
alas,  to  himself.  Gregory,  smiling  in  eager  anticipa 
tion  of  what  might  ensue,  was  necessarily  ignorant  of 
so  much.  Something  again  lay  back  of  that,  Lee 
realized — his  occupation  in  life.  There  he,  Lee,  had 
made  his  first,  perhaps  most  serious,  mistake.  While 
the  majority  of  men  turned,  indifferent,  from  their 
labor,  there  were  a  rare  few — hadn't  he  phrased  this 
before? — lost  in  an  edifice  of  the  mind,  scientific  or 
aesthetic  or  commercial,  who  were  happily  ^unconscious 
of  the  lapsing  fretful  years. 

That  was  the  way  to  cheat  the  sardonic  gathered 
fates:  to  be  deaf  and  blind  to  whatever,  falsely,  they 
seemed  to  offer;  to  get  into  bed  heavy  with  weariness 
and  rise  hurried  and  absorbed.  Over  men  so  preoc 
cupied,  spent,  Cytherea  had  no  power.  It  was  strange 
how  her  name  had  become  linked  with  all  his  deepest 

[278] 


CYTHEREA 

speculations;  she  was  involved  in  concerns  remote 
from  her  apparent  sphere  ?nd  influence. 

"Gracious,  you're  thinking  a  lot,"  Helena  said. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  Gregory  added. 

"A  doll,"  he  replied,  turning  to  his  daughter. 

"For  me,"  she  declared. 

"No,  me,"  Gregory  insisted. 

Lee  Randon  shook  his  head.  "Not  you,  in  the 
least." 

"Of  course  not,"  Helena  supported  him.  "I  should 
think  it  would  make  you  sick,  father,  hearing  Greg 
ory  talk  like  that.  It  does  me.  Why  doesn't  he  ask 
for  something  that  boys  play  with?" 

"I  don't  want  them,  that's  why,"  Gregory  specified. 
"Perhaps  I'd  like  to  have  a  typewriter." 

"You're  not  very  modest."     It  was  Helena  again. 

"It's  father,  isn't  it?     It  isn't  you." 

"Listen,"  Lee  broke  in,  "I  came  up  here  to  be  with 
two  good  children;  but  where  are  they?" 

"I'm  one."  Helena,  freeing  herself  definitely, 
closed  her  arms  in  a  sweet  warmth  about  his  neck. 
"I'm  one,  too,"  Gregory  called  urgently.  "No,"  his 
father  pressed  him  back;  "you  must  stay  in  bed. 
They  are  both  here,  I  can  see." 

He  wondered  if,  everything  else  forgotten,  his  chil 
dren  could  constitute  a  sufficient  engagement;  but  the 
sentimental  picture,  cast  across  his  thoughts,  of  him 
self  being  led  by  a  child  holding  each  of  his  hands 
defeated  it.  He  was  turned  in  another  direction. 

[279] 


CYTHEREA 

Yet,  tonight,  they  were  remarkably  engaging 

He  had  lost  a  great  deal.  For  what?  He  couldn't 
— as  usual — answer;  but  the  memory  of  Savina, 
stronger  than  Fanny,  metaphorically  took  Helena's 
arms  away  from  his  neck  and  blurred  the  image  of 
Gregory.  "Have  you  said  your  prayer?"  he  asked 
absent-mindedly  making  conversation.  Oh,  yes,  he 
was  informed,  they  did  that  with  Martha.  "I'll  say 
mine  again,"  Gregory  volunteered.  Again — a  picture 
of  a  child,  in  a  halo  of  innocence,  praying  at  a  pater 
nal  knee  to  a  fresco  of  saccharine  angels ! 

"Once  is  enough,"  he  answered  hurriedly.  "I  am 
sure  you  do  it  very  nicely." 

"Well,  anyhow,  better  than  Helena,"  Gregory  ad 
mitted.  "She  hurries  so."  Lee  instructed  him  to  con 
fine  his  observations  to  his  own  performance.  Now 
was  the  time  for  him  to  deliver  a  small  sermon  on 
prayer  to  Helena.  He  recognized  this,  but  he  was 
merely  incensed  by  it.  What  could  he  reply  if  they 
questioned  him  about  his  own  devotions?  Should  he 
acknowledge  that  he  thought  prayer  was  no  more  than 
a  pleasant  form  of  administering  to  a  sense  of  self- 
importance?  Or,  at  most,  a  variety  of  self-help? 
Luckily  they  didn't  ask.  How  outraged  Fanny  would 
be — he  would  be  driven  from  the  community — if  he 
confessed  the  slightest  of  his  doubts  to  his  children. 
If,  say  at  the  table,  when  they  were  all  together,  he 
should  drop  his  negative  silence,  his  policy  of  non 
intervention,  what  a  horrified  breathlessness  would 

[280] 


CYTHEREA 

follow.  His  children,  Lee  thought,  his  wife,  the  ser 
vants  in  the  kitchen,  none  knew  him ;  he  was  a  stranger 
to  his  own  house. 

If  he  had  still,  quite  desperately,  instinctively, 
looked  to  Helena  and  Gregory  for  assistance,  he  had 
met  a  final  failure.  Brushed  with  sleepiness  they 
were  slipping  away  from  him.  He  was  reluctant  to 
have  them  go,  leave  him;  the  distance  between  them 
and  himself  appeared  to  widen  immeasurably  as  he 
stood  watching  them  settle  for  the  night.  He  wanted 
to  call  them  back,  "Helena  and  Gregory,  Gregory !" 
But  he  remained  quiet,  his  head  a  little  bent,  his  heart 
heavy.  The  tide  of  sleep,  silent,  mystical,  recompens 
ing  !  It  wasn't  that,  exactly,  he  was  facing. 

Switching  off  the  light  he  went  into  their  play 
room,  scattered  with  bright  toys,  with  alphabet  blocks 
and  an  engine,  a  train  of  cars  and  some  lengths  of 
track,  and  a  wooden  steamboat  on  wheels  gaily  painted. 
Already  these  things  had  a  look  of  indifferent  treat 
ment,  of  having  been  half  cast  aside.  Gregory  had 
wanted  a  typewriter;  his  jacket,  at  dancing-school,  had 
been  belted  like  his,  Lee  Randon's.  They  each  had, 
in  the  lower  hall,  a  bicycle  on  which  they  rode  to  and 
from  school  and  to  play.  "Will  he  need  me  later?" 
Lee  asked  himself;  "or  will  it  be  the  same  till  the 
end?"  But  he  had  already  decided  that  the  latter 
was  infinitely  better. 

He  lingered  on  the  second  floor,  putting  off  from 
minute  to  minute  the  unavoidable  taking  up  of  Fanny's 

[281] 


CYTHEREA 

demands.  She  was,  he  knew,  waiting  for  his  appear 
ance  to  begin  again  energetically.  In  their  room  it 
struck  him  forcibly  that  he  must  make  some  mental 
diagram  of  his  course,  his  last  unshakable  position. 
Certainly  in  admitting  that  he  had  called  Savina  Grove 
by  her  first  name  he  had  justified  Fanny's  contention 
that  he  had  kissed  her.  Fanny  should  have  asked 
him  how  many  times  that  had  occurred.  "A  hun 
dred,"  he  heard  himself,  in  fancy,  replying.  By 
God,  he  would  like  to  say  just  that,  and  have  it  all 
over,  done  with.  Instead  he  must  lie  cunningly,  im- 
perturbably,  and  in  a  monumental  patience.  Why? 
He  hadn't,  pointedly,  asked  that  before.  Things  here, 
his  life,  the  future,  must  be  held  together. 

After  he  had  descended,  he  lingered  in  the  hall: 
in  the  room  where  his  wife  was  sitting  not  a  sound 
was  audible,  there  wasn't  an  indication  of  her  presence. 
Lee  turned  away  to  the  mantel-piece  dominated  by 
Cytherea.  Here,  he  addressed  himself  silently  to  the 
doll,  you're  responsible  for  this.  Get  me  out  of  it. 
I'll  put  it  all  in  your  hands,  that  hand  you  have  raised 
and  hold  half  open  and  empty.  But  his,  he  added, 
in  an  embittered  lightness,  was  an  affair  of  matri 
mony;  it  was  a  moral  knot;  and  it  had  nothing  to  do 
with  Cytherea,  with  the  shape,  the  sea,  the  island,  of 
Venus.  She  was  merely  disdainful. 

Fanny  was  seated  in  the  chair,  the  exact  position, 
in  which  he  had  left  her.  And  when  he  returned  to 
the  place  he  had  deserted,  she  took  no  notice  of  him. 

[282] 


CYTHEREA 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  thought,  her  lips  pinched. 
Was  it  only  now,  or  had  he  never  noticed  it  before, 
that  her  hands  resembled  her  face,  bony  with  a  dry 
fine  skin?  Perhaps,  heroically,  she  was  thrusting  the 
whole  subject  of  Savina  Grove  from  her  mind;  he 
couldn't  tell ;  her  exterior  showed  Lee  Randon  nothing. 
He  waited,  undecided  if  he'd  smoke.  Lee  didn't,  he 
found,  want  to.  She  shook  her  head,  a  startled  look 
passed  through  her  eyes,  and  Fanny  sighed  deeply. 
She  seemed  to  come  back  from  a  far  place.  It  was, 
of  course,  the  past,  her  early  aspirations;  herself, 
young;  but  what,  out  of  her  remembrance,  had  she 
brought  with  her? 

Nothing. 

Her  first  words  instantly  dispelled  what  had  many 
aspects  of  his  last  hope  for  peace.  "It  is  surprising 
to  me  that  you  could  go  up  to  the  children;  but  I 
suppose  we  must  all  be  glad  to  have  you  pay  attention 
to  them  at  any  time."  This  minor  development  he 
succeeded  in  avoiding.  "I  have  been  thinking  hard," 
she  continued,  "and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  about 
you;  it  is  this — you  just  simply  have  to  be  different. 
I  won't  let  you,  us,  stay  like  this.  It  is  hideous." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  he  admitted;  "and  I  have 
already  agreed  that  the  change  must  principally  be  in 
me.  If  you'd  explain  it  to  me,  what  you  have  decided 
on,  we'll  find  out,  if  possible,  how  to  go  about  it." 

"At  least  you  needn't  be  sarcastic,'1  she  replied; 
[283] 


CYTHEREA 

"I  am  not  as  impossible  as  you  make  out.  You  will 
have  to  be  different  at  home — " 

"I  thought  it  was  outside  home  you  objected  to." 

"It's  one  and  the  same,"  she  went  on;  "and  I  won't 
have  them,  it,  a  minute  longer.  Not  a  minute !  You 
have  got  to  behave  yourself." 

"You  haven't  been  very  definite  yet." 

"Mrs.  Grove — Savina,"  she  flung  back  at  him. 

"That  is  a  name  and  not  a  fact." 

"It's  a  fact  that  you  kissed  her."  Fanny  leaned 
forward,  flushed  and  tense,  knocking  over  her  stool. 
"And  that  you  put  your  arms  around  her,  and  said — 
oh,  I  don't  know  what  you  did  say.  Did  she  mention 
me?" 

"Only  indirectly,"  he  replied  with  a  gleam  of  malice; 
"neither  of  us  did." 

"I  am  glad  of  that  anyhow."  But  her  vindictive 
tone  betrayed  the  words.  "Although  I  can  easily  guess 
why  you  didn't — you  were  ashamed.  You  did  kiss 
her;  why  won't  you  admit  it?" 

"What's  the  good?  You've  done  that  for  me. 
You  have  convinced  yourself  so  positively  that  noth 
ing  I  could  say  would  be  of  any  use." 

"Did  she  call  you  Lee?" 

"Hell,  Fanny,  what  a  God-forsaken  lot  of  young 
nonsense!"  His  anger  was  mounting.  "Yoa  can 
understand  here  as  well  as  later  that  I  am  not  going 
to  answer  any  of  it;  and  I'll  not  listen  to  a  great 
deal  more.  Sometimes,  lately,  you  have  been  insult- 

[284] 


CYTHEREA 

ing,  but  now  you  are  downright  pathetic,  you  are  so 
ridiculous." 

"You  will  stay  exactly  where  you  are  until  I  get 
done."  Her  tone  was  perceptibly  shriller.  "And 
don't  you  dare  call  me  pathetic;  if  you  only  knew — 
disgracing  yourself  in  New  York,  with  a  family  at 
home.  It  is  too  common  and  low  and  vulgar  for 
words:  like  a  travelling  salesman.  But  I'll  make  you 
behave  if  I  have  to  lock  you  up." 

Lee  Randon  laughed  at  her;  and,  at  the  contempt 
in  his  mirth,  she  rose,  no  longer  flushed,  but  white 
with  wrath.  "I  won't  have  it!"  Her  voice  was 
almost  a  scream,  and  she  brought  her  hands  down 
so  violently  on  the  table  that,  as  she  momentarily 
broke  the  circuit  of  the  electric  lamp,  there  was  a  flash 
of  greenish  light.  It  was  exactly  as  though  her  fury, 
a  generated  incandescence  of  rage,  had  burned  into 
a  perceptible  flare.  This,  he  realized,  was  worse  than 
he  had  anticipated;  he  saw  no  safe  issue;  it  was 
entirely  serious.  Lee  was  aware  of  a  vague  sorrow, 
a  wish  to  protect  Fanny,  from  herself  as  much  as  any 
thing;  but  he  was  powerless.  At  the  same  time,  with 
the  support  of  no  affection,  without  interest,  his 
patience  was  rapidly  vanishing.  He  was  conscious 
of  Fanny  not  as  his  wife,  nor  as  a  being  lost  in  infinite 
suffering,  but  as  a  woman  with  her  features  strangely, 
grotesquely,  twisted  and  drawn. 

His  principal  recognition  was  that  she  meant  noth 
ing  to  him;  she  wasn't  even  familiar;  he  couldn't 

[.285] 


CYTHEREA 

credit  the  fact  that  they  had  long  lived  together  in  an 
entire  intimacy.  Dissolved  by  his  indifference,  the 
past  vanished  like  a  white  powder  in  a  glass  of  water. 
She  might  have  been  a  woman  overtaken  by  a  mental 
paroxysm  in  the  cold  impersonality  of  a  railway  sta 
tion.  "Stop  it,"  he  commanded  sharply;  "you  are 
hysterical,  all  kinds  of  a  fool." 

"Only  one  kind,"  she  corrected  him,  in  a  voice  so 
rasped  that  it  might  have  come  from  a  rusted  throat; 
"and  I'm  not  going  to  be  it  much  longer.  You  have 
cured  me,  you  and  that  Savina.  But  what — what 
makes  me  laugh  is  how  you  thought  you  could  explain 
and  lie  and  bully  me.  Anything  would  do  to  tell  me, 
I'd  swallow  it  like  one  of  those  big  grapes."  She 
was  speaking  in  gusts,  between  the  labored  heavings 
of  her  breast;  her  eyes  were  staring  and  dark;  and 
her  hands  opened  and  shut,  shut  and  opened,  con 
tinuously.  Fanny's  cheeks  were  now  mottled,  there 
were  fluctuating  spots  of  red,  blue  shadows,  on  the 
pallor  of  her  skin. 

"In  a  minute  more  you'll  be  sick,"  he  warned  her. 

"Oh,  God,"  she  whispered,  "that's  all  he  knows,  all 
he  feels!  In  a  minute,  a  minute,  I'll  be  sick.  Don't 
you  see,  you  damned  fool,"  her  voice  rose  until  it 
seemed  impossible  that  she  could  hold  the  pitch,  "can't 
you  understand  I  am  dying?" 

"No."  His  terseness  was  calculated:  that,  he 
thought,  would  best  control  her  wildness.  "No  one 
could  be  more  alive.  If  I  were  you,  though,  I'd  go 

[286] 


CYTHEREA 

up  to  bed;  we've  had  enough  of  this,  or  I  have;  I 
can't  speak  for  you.  But,  however  that  may  be,  and 
as  I've  said  before,  it  has  got  to  stop,  now,  at  once." 

If  it  didn't,  he  continued  silently,  he  wouldn't  be 
eternally  responsible  for  himself ;  never  a  patient  man, 
what  might  follow  the  end  of  his  endurance  was  un 
predictable.  His  feeling  toward  the  woman  before 
him  was  shifting,  as  well;  the  indifference  was  becom 
ing  bitterness;  the  bitterness  glittered,  like  mica,  with 
points  of  hatred.  He  felt  this,  like  an  actual  sub 
stance,  a  jelly-like  poison,  in  his  blood,  affecting  his 
body  and  mind.  It  bred  in  him  a  refined  brutality, 
an  ingenious  cruelty.  "A  mirror  would  shut  you  up 
quicker  than  anything  else,"  he  informed  her;  "you 
look  like  a  woman  of  sixty — go  somewhere  and  fix 
your  face." 

"It  doesn't  surprise  me  you  are  insulting,"  she  re 
plied,  "but  I  didn't  expect  it  quite  so  soon.  I  thought 
you  might  hide  what  you  really  were  a  little  longer; 
it  seemed  to  me  you  might  try  to  keep  something. 
But  I  guess  it's  better  to  have  it  all  done  with  at  once, 
and  to  meet  the  worst." 

"You  talk  as  though  there  were  no  one  but  you  in 
this,"  he  said  concisely;  "and  that  I  didn't  matter. 
You'll  find  that  I  have  a  little  to  say.  Here  it  is: 
I  am  tired  of  your  suspicions  and  questions  and  in 
sinuations.  You  haven't  any  idea  of  marriage  except 
as  a  bed-room  farce.  You're  so  pure  that  you  imagine 
more  indecencies  in  a  day  than  I  could  get  through 

[287] 


CYTHEREA 

with  in  five  years.  If  there  were  one  I  hadn't  thought 
of,  you'd  have  me  at  it  in  no  time.  It  was  pleasant 
at  the  Groves'  because  there  was  none  of  this  infernal 
racket.  Mrs.  Grove,  no — Savina,  is  a  wise  woman. 
I  was  glad  to  be  with  her,  to  get  away — " 

"Go  back,  then!"  Fanny  cried.  "Don't  bother 
about  me  and  your  home  and  the  children.  You 
brought  me  here,  and  made  me  have  them,  all  the 
blood  and  tearing;  but  that  doesn't  matter.  Not  to 
you!  I  won't  let  you  touch  me  again." 

"That  needn't  trouble  you,"  he  assured  her. 

"Not  .  .  .  when  you  have  her  ...  to  touch." 
She  could  scarcely  articulate,  each  word  was  pro 
nounced  as  though  it  had  cost  a  separate  and  stran 
gling  effort.  "You  vile,  rotten  coward!" 

The  flood  of  her  hysteria  burst  so  suddenly  that, 
unprepared,  he  was  overwhelmed  with  its  storm  of 
tears  and  passionate  charges.  "You  ought  to  be 
beaten  till  you  fell  down.  You  wouldn't  say  these 
things  to  me,  treat  me  like  this,  if  I  weren't  helpless, 
if  I  could  do  anything.  But  I  can't,  and  you  are 
safe.  I  am  only  your  wife  and  not  some  filthy  woman 
in  New  York."  As  she  moved  her  head  the  stream 
ing  tears  swung  out  from  her  face.  "God  damn  you." 
Her  hand  went  out  to  the  table  and,  rising,  it  held  the 
heavy  dull  yellow  paper  cutter.  Before  he  could  draw 
back  she  struck  him;  the  copper  point  ripped  down 
his  jaw  and  hit  his  shoulder  a  jarring  blow. 

In  an  instant  of  passion  Lee  Randon  caught  Fanny 
[288] 


CYTHEREA 

by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her  until  her  head  rolled 
as  though  her  neck  were  broken.  Even  in  his  trans 
port  of  rage,  with  his  fingers  dug  into  her  flesh,  he 
stopped  to  see  if  this  were  true. 

It  wasn't.  She  swayed  uncertainly,  dazed  and 
gasping,  while  her  hair,  shaken  loose  from  its  knot, 
slowly  cascaded  over  one  shoulder.  Then  stumbling, 
groping,  with  a  hand  on  a  chair,  against  the  frame  of 
the  door,  she  went  out  of  the  room. 

Lee's  jaw  bled  thickly  and  persistently;  the  blood 
soaked,  filled,  his  handkerchief;  and,  going  to  the 
drawer  in  the  dining-room  where  the  linen  was  kept, 
he  secured  and  held  against  a  ragged  wound  a  napkin. 
He  was  nauseated  and  faint.  His  rage,  killed,  as  it 
were,  at  its  height,  left  him  with  a  sensation  of  empti 
ness  and  degradation.  The  silence — after  the  last 
audible  dragging  footfall  of  Fanny  slowly  mounting 
the  stairs — was  appalling:  it  was  as  though  all  the 
noise  of  all  the  world,  concentrated  in  his  head,  had 
been  stopped  at  once  and  forever.  He  removed  the 
sop  from  the  cut,  and  the  bleeding  promptly  took  up 
its  spreading  over  his  throat  and  under  his  collar. 
That  blow  had  killed  a  great  deal:  the  Lee  Randon 
married  to  Fanny  was  already  dead;  Fanny,  too,  had 
told  him  that  she  was  dying,  killed  from  within.  It 
was  a  shame. 

He  was  walking  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had 
better  keep  quiet;  if  the  blood  didn't  soon  stop  he 

[289] 


CYTHEREA 

should  require  help;  he  was  noticeably  weak.  His 
feeling  with  regard  to  Fanny  was  confined  to  curiosity, 
but  mainly  his  thoughts,  his  illimitable  disgust,  were 
directed  at  himself.  His  anger,  returning  like  the 
night  wind  from  a  different  direction,  cut  at  himself, 
at  the  collapse  of  his  integrity.  He  was,  in  reality, 
frightened  at  what  had  been  no  better  than  a  relapse 
into  a  state  of  mania ;  he  was  shocked  at  the  presence, 
however  temporary,  of  a  frenzy  of  madness. 

Nothing  had  altered  his  attitude  toward  the  woman 
who  was  his  wife;  all  his  active  emotions  for  her 
had  gone.  Then  his  attention  was  drawn  from  his 
personality  to  his  life,  his  surroundings;  they  were 
suffocating.  Not  to  be  borne!  Nowhere  could  he 
discover  a  detail,  an  episode,  that  had  the  importance 
of  reality.  He  had  a  sensation  of  being  wrapped  in 
a  feather  bed,  the  need  to  make  a  violent  gesture — 
sending  the  white  fluff  whirling  through  space — and 
so  be  free  to  breathe.  This  house,  the  symmetrical 
copied  walls,  the  harmonious  rugs,  symbols  of  public 
success  and  good  opinion,  the  standard  of  a  public 
approbation,  exasperated  him  beyond  endurance.  He 
wanted  to  push  the  walls  out,  tear  the  rugs  into  rags, 
and  scatter  them  contemptuously  before  the  scandalized 
inertness  of  Eastlake.  Lee  had  what  was  regarded  as 
an  admirable  existence,  an  admirable  family — the 
world  imposed  this  judgment  on  him;  and  the  desire, 
the  determination,  swept  over  him  to  smash  to  irreme 
diable  atoms  what  was  so  well  applauded. 

[290] 


CYTHEREA 

The  thought  fascinated  him:  to  break  his  life  wide 
open.  He'd  let  it  go,  it  was  worthless  to  him,  the 
companies  and  bonds  and  the  woman  and  children, 
the  jog-trotting  on  fenced  roads,  the  vain  pretentions 
of  the  country  club,  the  petty  grasping  at  the  petticoats 
— where  they  were  worn — of  variety.  Lee  wished 
that  he  could  do  this  in  the  presence  of  everyone  he 
knew;  he  wanted  to  see  their  outraged  faces,  hear  the 
shocked  expressions,  as  he  insulted,  demolished,  all 
that  they  worshipped.  The  blood,  he  found,  had 
stopped;  his  hurt  was  relatively  unimportant.  The 
fever  of  rebellion,  of  destruction,  increased  in  him 
until  it  was  as  violent,  as  blinding,  as  his  earlier  fury ; 
and  he  went  at  once  in  search  of  Fanny. 

She  had  undressed,  and,  in  a  nightgown  effectively 
drawn  with  blue  ribbons,  she  lay  face  down  across  the 
bottom  of  her  bed.  One  shoulder,  immaculately  white 
except  for  the  leaden  bruises  of  his  fingers,  was  bare, 
and  an  arm,  from  which  her  jewelled  wrist  watch  had 
not  been  removed,  was  outstretched.  He  stood  above 
her,  but,  breathing  faintly,  she  made  no  sign  of  a  con 
sciousness  of  his  presence. 

"Fanny,"  he  began,  speaking  with  an  effort  of  calm 
ness  out  of  his  laboring  being,  "this  is  all  over  for  me. 
As  I  told  you  so  many  times,  I've  had  too  much  of 
it.  It's  yours,  anyhow,  and  the  children  are  yours, 
and  you  may  do  what  you  like  with  the  whole  affair. 
I'm  done."  Still  she  didn't  move,  reply.  "I  am  go 
ing,"  he  said  more  impatiently,  "tonight.  I  want  you 

[291] 


CYTHEREA 

to  understand  that  this  is  final.  You  were  too  good 
a  wife;  I  couldn't  keep  even  with  you;  and  I  can't  say, 
now,  that  I  want  to.  Everyone  will  tell  you  that  I 
am  no  good — you  see,  I  haven't  the  shadow  of  a  cause 
for  leaving — and  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  believe 
them.  If  I  had  what  was  recognized  as  a  reason  for 
going,  I'd  stay,  if  that  has  any  sense;  you  may  put 
your  own  interpretation  on  it." 

She  turned  and  half  rose,  regarding  him  from  the 
edge  of  the  bed.  Her  face,  no  longer  brightly  mottled, 
was  sunken,  and  dull  with  despair.  "I  can't  talk," 
she  said;  "the  words  are  all  hard  like  stones  down  in 
my  heart.  You'll  have  to  go;  I  can't  stop  you;  I 
knew  you  had  gone  yesterday,  or  was  it  last  week? 
I  saw  it  was  a  hopeless  fight  but  I  tried,  I  had  to;  I 
thought  your  memory  would  help." 

"It  wasn't  Savina  who  did  this,"  he  informed  her; 
"I  want  you  to  realize  that  fully.  Whatever  happens, 
she  is  not  to  blame.  All,  all  the  fault  is  mine;  it 
would  take  too  long  to  explain,  you  wouldn't  believe 
me — you  couldn't — and  so  I  am  deserting  you.  That 
is  the  word  for  it,  the  one  you  will  use."  Fanny 
gazed  at  him  in  a  clouding  perplexity. 

"I  can't  think  it's  true."  Her  voice  was  dazed. 
"A  thing  like  this  couldn't  be  happening  to  us,  to  me. 
It's  only  for  a  little,  we  are  both  cross — " 

He  cut  her  short  with  the  assurance  that  what  he  said 
he  meant.  Sentimental  indulgence,  he  felt,  was  dan 
gerously  out  of  place.  She  slipped  back,  supine,  on 

[292] 


CYTHEREA 

the  bed;  and,  with  short  sobs,  she  cried,  "Go!   Go! 
Go!" 

In  his  room  he  methodically  and  thoughtfully  as 
sembled  the  necessities  for  his  bag;  he  was  arranging 
mentally  the  details  of  his  act.  Where,  primarily,  it 
affected  Fanny  and  the  children,  his  lawyers  could 
handle  it  best ;  it  was  the  present  consequences  to  him 
self,  the  step  immediately  before  him,  that  demanded 
consideration.  But  his  deliberation  was  lost  in  the 
knowledge  that  he  would  go  to  New  York  where,  in 
evitably,  he  should  see  Savina.  No  one  could  predict 
what  would  determine  that ;  it  would  unfold,  his  affair 
with  Savina  must  conclude,  as  it  had  begun — in 
obedience  to  pressures  beyond  their  control.  An  in 
creasing  excitement  flowed  over  him  at  the  thought  of 
being  with  her,  possessing  her,  again.  There  was  no 
doubt  of  that  in  his  mind ;  he  knew  that  Savina  would 
come  to  him.  She  was  far  more  ruthless  in  brushing 
aside  artificial  barriers,  prejudices,  than,  until  now, 
he.  The  figure  of  William  Grove  occupied  him  for  a 
little,  but  he  seemed  insubstantial,  not  so  much  a  being 
as  a  convention  to  be  smashed  in  his  own  house. 

Lee  Randon  decided  not  to  speak  again,  to  say 
good-bye,  to  Fanny.  It  would  only  multiply  the  dif 
ficulties  of  his  leaving ;  she  might  have  another  attack 
of  rage,  or — worse — of  affection.  He  was  amazed  at 
his  lack  of  feeling,  a  little  disturbed:  perhaps  there 
was  something  fatally  wrong,  lacking,  about  him,  and 
he  was  embarked  on  the  first  violent  stage  of  physical 

[293] 


CYTHEREA 

and  mental  degradation.  It  couldn't  be  helped,  he 
told  himself,  once  more  down  stairs,  in  the  hall.  Be 
yond,  the  stool  lay  where  Fanny  had  kicked  it;  and  he 
bent  over  to  pick  up  the  copper  paper  cutter  from  the 
floor.  Putting  it  on  the  table,  he  reflected  that  Fanny 
would,  in  all  probability,  destroy  it.  His  handker 
chief,  stiff,  black  with  dried  blood,  was  in  the  crystal 
ash  holder  with  a  mahogany  stand;  and  that,  as  un 
necessarily  unpleasant,  he  hid  in  a  pocket. 

The  electric  globe  in  the  floor  lamp  was  yellow;  it 
was  nearly  burned  out  and  would  have  to  be  replaced. 
This  had  been  his  special  corner,  the  most  comfortable 
in  the  pen.  But  the  pig,  he  remembered,  had  been 
slaughtered  last  week ;  and  he  wondered  if  the  parallel 
he  had  established  would  hold  true  to  the  end.  In  the 
main  aspect,  he  concluded,  yes.  But  the  pig  had  died 
without  experiencing  what  was,  undoubtedly,  both  the 
fundamental  duty  and  recompense  of  living.  The 
pig,  happily  or  unhappily,  had  remained  in  ignorance 
of  Cytherea  and  the  delights  of  love;  but,  perhaps,  if 
only  for  the  moment,  he  had  better  call  that  pas 
sion  ;  it  was  a  word  of  clearer,  more  exact,  definition. 

He  left  the  house  walking,  carrying  his  bag  up  the 
hill  into  Eastlake:  a  train  left  for  the  city  at  eleven- 
fifty-eight.  Lee  turned,  beyond  his  property,  and 
saw  the  light  burning  in  what  had  been  his  and 
Fanny's  room;  the  rest  of  the  house,  except  for  the 
glimmer  below,  was  dark.  The  winter  night  was  en 
crusted  with  stars.  A  piercing  regret  seized  him — 

[294] 


CYTHEREA 

that  he  was  past  the  middle  of  forty  and  not  in  the 
early  twenties.  To  be  young  and  to  know  Savina! 
To  be  young  and  free.  To  be  young  ...  the  in 
creasing  rapidity  with  which  he  went  forward  had  the 
aspect  of  an  endeavor  to  waste  no  more  precious  time. 


[295] 


THE  brief  level  voice  of  Savina  Grove  arrang 
ing  over  the  telephone  an  hour,  very  late  in 
the  afternoon,  for  him  to  call,  gave  Lee  a 
comparatively  long  time  in  which  to  examine  his  feel 
ings,  particularly  in  connection  with  Savina.  His 
state  of  mind,  his  intentions,  he  realized,  should  be 
clear  for  the  moment  when  he  saw  her.  In  general 
they  were;  but  the  particulars,  the  details  of  any  prob 
able  immediate  action,  evaded  him.  He  should  have 
to  consult  her  about  them.  What  he  most  firmly 
grasped  of  all  was  that  he  couldn't — what,  in  reality, 
he  breathed  to  himself  was  they — remain  in  New 
York.  The  comparatively  orderly  and  delayed  legal 
arrangement  projected  by  the  Morrises  and  Mina  Raff 
seemed  to  have  no  application  to  the  impetuosity  of 
the  situation  before  him.  However,  he  was  advanc 
ing  at  a  speed,  to  a  position,  for  which  there  was  no 
warrant.  None  at  all.  Perhaps  Savina,  satisfied 
by  the  one  occasion  which — he  had  been  so  careful  to 
insist — must  be  the  last,  would  regard  him  as  merely 
importunate. 

Strictly  held  to  discretion  by  the  fact  of  Fanny, 
Savina  might  have  found  him  then — more  available 

[296] 


CYTHEREA 

than  when  free — only  the  acceptable  model  of  an  in 
discreet  man.  Yet,  he  reminded  himself,  he  hadn't 
left  Eastlake,  broken  wide  open  his  home,  on  account 
of  Savina.  This,  he  again  Insisted,  would  have  hap 
pened  independently  of  her;  his  life  in  Eastlake  had 
broken  up  of  its  own  accord;  its  elements  had  been 
too  tenuous  for  the  withstanding  any  longer  of  the 
stress  of  existence.  But,  he  was  forced  to  add,  the 
collapse  had  been  hastened  by  his  knowledge  of 
Savina.  And  this  brought  him  to  the  examination  of 
what,  at  bottom,  she  meant  to  him.  What  was  her 
significance,  her  bulk,  in  his  life? 

That  could  be  approached  only  through  an  under 
standing  of  his  feeling  for  her,  what  it  was  now  and 
what  it  might  become ;  not  conspicuously  easy  of  com 
prehension.  Lee  tried  the  old,  the  long  inaccurately 
used,  word,  love.  He  asked  himself  the  question 
squarely — did  he  love  Savina?  Damned  if  he  knew! 
He  might  reply  to  that,  he  thought  ruefully,  if  he 
grasped  what  love  was,  what  the  blasted  phrase 
meant.  As  it  was,  it  seemed  to  Lee,  a  dictionary  of 
synonyms  would  be  helpless  to  make  all  its  varied 
significances  distinct.  He  tried  a  simpler  approach 
— did  he  want  to  be  with  Savina  more  than  with 
anyone  else?  At  last  he  had  put  a  question  to  him 
self  that  he  could  answer:  he  most  assuredly  preferred 
being  with  Savina  to  anyone  else  he  knew.  But  that 
alone  would  not  have  taken  him  to  her. 

A  simple  desire  on  his  part,  naive  like  a  daisy, 
[297] 


CYTHEREA 

could  not  have  overthrown  the  structure  of  his  being. 
Yet  the  connection  between  the  two,  the  woman  and 
the  event,  was  undeniable,  his  impulse  to  go  to  her 
now  irresistible.  That  last  word,  as  fully  as  any,  ex 
pressed  what  lately  had  happened  to  him.  He  was 
considering  the  occurrences  logically  while  the  fact 
was  that  logic  hadn't  been  touched  on,  summoned, 
once.  He  had  moved  emotionally  and  not  intellectu 
ally;  he  hadn't  known,  from  hour  to  hour,  in  what 
direction  he  would  proceed.  Certainly  nothing  could 
be  said  in  his  defense  on  the  score  of  common  sense; 
that,  though,  didn't  disturb  him;  at  a  time  when  he 
might  have  been  said  to  rely  on  it,  common  sense 
had  failed  him  utterly.  He  had  thrown  that  over 
his  shoulder.  Nor  was  he  searching  for  an  exterior 
justification  of  his  present  anomalous  position,  for, 
briefly,  an  excuse;  excuses  were  the  furthest  of  all 
things  from  his  mind.  The  truth  was  that  he  was 
decidedly  exhilarated,  as  though  he  had  left  the  hard 
narrow  road  for  a  gallop  over  the  green.  He  was 
merely  dwelling  on,  analyzing,  the  present  as  it  was 
becoming  the  newly  promising,  the  opening,  future. 
But  he  did  need  to  understand — for  an  attitude, 
a  choice  of  speech,  if  nothing  else — his  feeling  for 
Savina.  It  consisted  principally  in  the  tyrannical 
desire  to  be  with  her,  to  sink  in  the  immeasurable 
depths  of  her  passion,  and  there  lose  all  consciousness 
of  the  trivial  mundane  world.  That,  Lee  felt,  given 
the  rest,  the  fact  that  he  was  here  as  he  was,  was 

[298] 


CYTHEREA 

sufficient;  but — again  still — he  had  had  no  voice  in 
it.  The  passion  had  inundated  him  in  the  manner  of 
an  incoming  tide  and  a  low- water  rock.  Abruptly, 
after  a  certain  misleading  appearance  of  hesitation  on 
the  part  of  the  waves,  he  had  gone  under.  Well,  it 
was  very  pleasant.  In  his  case  the  celebrated  maxims 
were  wrong. 

He  left  this,  for  the  moment,  and  returned  to  what, 
actually,  lay  ahead  of  him.  Would  Savina  go  away 
with  him,  leave  the  correct  William,  the  safety  of 
their  New  York  house  in  the  style  of  eighteen-eighty? 
Lee  considered  in  her  two  impulses,  not  alike — her 
overwhelming  passion,  herself  generally;  and  her  ad 
mission,  no,  cry,  that  she  loved  him,  or  the  special 
part  he  had  in  her.  It  rather  looked  as  though  he'd 
be  successful.  It  did  for  a  fact.  He  had  not  been 
idle  through  all  the  day,  but  had  drawn  from  the 
Harriman  Bank  twenty  thousand  dollars.  So  much 
had  not  been  necessary;  it  was  very  bad  business 
to  segregate  in  idleness  such  a  sum  of  money  now; 
but  he  enjoyed  the  extravagance  of  it.  Prudence, 
frugality,  was  no  longer  a  factor  in  his  affairs. 

His  present  personal  liberty,  more  complete  than 
it  had  ever  been  before — than,  he  added  lightly,  it 
might  ever  be  again — was  astonishingly  soothing. 
Sitting  comfortably  in  a  room  in  his  customary  hotel, 
there  wasn't  a  pressure  that  could  be  brought  to  bear 
on  him.  It  was  now  twenty  minutes  past  four,  he 
was  to  go  to  Savina  at  a  quarter  to  six,  and  until 

[299] 


CYTHEREA 

then  there  was  nothing,  nothing,  to  force  him  this 
way  or  that:  no  directors'  meetings,  gabbling  East- 
lake  figures,  responsibility,  housewife  or  children. 
He  hadn't  realized  the  extent  to  which  he  had  been 
surrounded  and  confined,  the  imponderable  mass  of 
what  he  had  not  only  been  indifferent  to  but  actually 
disliked.  He  could  lie  down — he  had  been  up  the 
entire  past  night — and  be  called  in  an  hour;  he  could 
sit  as  he  was,  in  an  unbuttoned  waistcoat  with  his 
legs  comfortably  spread  out;  he  could  motor  or  walk 
on  Fifth  Avenue;  smoke;  drink — all  in  an  inviolable 
security  of  being. 

Or,  going  back  to  that  moment  when  he  had,  so 
mistakenly,  turned  aside  from  visionary  promptings 
to  a  solid  comfortable  career,  he  might — what  was  it? 
— write.  Perhaps  his  sharp  regret  at  the  loss  of  his 
youth  was  premature,  youth  itself  comparatively  un 
important.  But  no,  that  would  involve  him  in  fresh 
distasteful  efforts,  imperceptibly  it  would  build  up  a 
whole  new  world  of  responsibilities :  writing  would  be 
arduous,  editors  captious,  and  articles,  stories,  books, 
tie  him  back  again  to  all  that  from  which  he  had  so 
miraculously  escaped.  Savina  would  be  enough. 
What  a  beautiful  body,  so  unexpectedly  full,  she  had; 
how  astounding,  intoxicating,  was  the  difference  be 
tween  what  she  seemed  to  be  and  what  she  was.  Lee 
Randon  thought  with  amused  pity  of  the  files  of  men 
who  must  have  passed  by  her,  with  the  most  con 
siderate  bows,  in  ignorance  of  the  inner  truth. 

[300] 


CYTHEREA 

That  discovery,  while,  naturally,  it  had  not  been 
entirely  reserved  for  him,  had  accumulated  in  a 
supreme  delight,  been  kept  back,  like  the  best  of  all 
presents,  for  the  last.  He  was  glad  that  it  wasn't 
too  late  for  him  to  enjoy  it.  Here,  suddenly,  inter 
vening  in  the  midst  of  a  prosaic  drudgery,  a  tepid 
and  meaningless  period,  was  a  magnificent  relief. 
By  God,  would  he  take  advantage  of  it!  Would  he! 
There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  hotel  valet 
hung  a  freshly  pressed  suit  in  the  closet;  the  shoes 
into  which  he  intended  to  change  were  in  a  perfection 
of  readiness ;  laid  out  were  a  heavy  blue  silk  shirt  and 
a  dull  yellow  tie.  Lee  got  these  various  carefully 
selected  articles  of  dress  slowly,  exactly,  on.  His 
pearl  pin  Fanny  had  given  him !  Well,  it  was  a  good 
pearl,  selected  personally  by  a  celebrated  dealer;  and 
Lee  was  obliged  to  her,  nothing  more.  He  lighted 
a  cigarette,  collected  his  hat  and  gloves,  his  overcoat 
and  stick,  and  descended  in  the  elevator  in  a  mood  of 
unrestrained  enjoyment. 

The  door  attendant,  who  knew  him,  whistled  for  a 
taxi-cab,  commenting  lightly  on  the  visible  accident 
to  his  jaw.  But,  in  spite  of  it,  Lee  had  an  appearance, 
as  he  phrased  it,  of  good  luck.  The  world,  he  said, 
was  evidently  in  favor  of  Mr.  Randon.  The  latter 
agreed  that  it  had  such  a  look.  He  was  positively 
jovial.  He  dismissed  the  cab  before  the  familiar 
entrance  on  East  Sixty-sixth  Street,  and  was  admitted 
immediately:  the  servant  caught  his  coat,  and  he  went 

[301] 


CYTHEREA 

into  the  drawing-room.  There  had  been,  he  saw,  a 
tea ;  the  confusion  lingering  from  a  crowd  was  evident ; 
the  cups,  on  all  the  available  surfaces,  had  not  been 
removed ;  in  a  corner  were  the  skeleton-like  iron  music 
racks  of  a  small  orchestra;  ash  trays  were  overflow 
ing;  and  a  sealskin  muff,  with  a  bunch  of  violets 
pinned  to  it,  had  been  left. 

Savina  had  gone  upstairs,  but  she  would  be  down 
at  once.  Lee  was  turned  away  from  the  door  when 
she  entered;  she  was  wearing  a  cloth  dress  of  dull 
red — hadn't  he  heard  it  called  Cuba  color? — with  a 
heavy  girdle  of  grotesque  intertwined  silver  figures. 
With  a  single  glance  behind  her  she  swept  forward 
into  Lee's  arms,  her  mouth  held  up  to  his. 

Listening  closely  to  all  that  he  had  to  say,  she  sat 
with  her  hands  quietly  folded  on  crossed  knees.  Per 
haps  twice  she  nodded,  comprehendingly.  "And  so," 
he  ended,  "that  is  what  has  occurred.  We  are  not 
to  blame  ourselves  too  much,  as  I've  explained;  the 
thing  happened  within  itself,  died  of  its  own  accord. 
But  the  past  doesn't  need  our  attention  now.  The 
future  is  the  thing.  What  is  it  going  to  be?  What," 
he  hesitated,  "can  we  make  it?  Maybe  everything, 
or  nothing." 

"Are  you  leaving  that  for  me  to  decide?"  she  asked. 

"To  a  great  extent  I  have  to;  I  don't  want  to 
appear  to  take  so  much  for  granted.  And  then,  only 
you  can  measure  what  I  have  to  offer.  I  believe  what 

[302] 


CYTHEREA 

I  have  done  is  considered  serious,  if  not  ruinous; 
but  that  I  can't  help  thinking  is  exaggerated.  I 
haven't  been  struck  down  yet.  I  don't,  candidly,  now, 
expect  to  be.  You  ought  to  come  to  this  through 
your  head,  and  not  the  heart,  which  I'd  naturally 
prefer  you  to  use.  What,  in  fact,  I  am  asking  you 
is  to  go  away  with  me,  to  live  with  me.  I  shall  not, 
and  you  couldn't,  very  well,  return.  It's  quite  final, 
in  other  words.  I  must  find  out,  too,  if  the  irregular 
ity  upsets  you.  That  need  only  be  temporary. 
Grove  and  Fanny,  I  am  sure,  wouldn't  persist  in  being 
disagreeable.  But,  if  they  did,  we'd  have  to  face  that 
as  well,  the  consequences  of  my — my  impatience. 

"No,  don't  answer  so  quickly.  Do  you  know  me, 
are  you  sure  you'd  be  happy,  satisfied,  with  me?  I 
have  some  money,  not  a  great  deal  for  myself  now; 
I  should  say  fifteen  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Fanny, 
very  rightfully — for  herself  and  the  children — will 
get  most  of  what  I  have.  And  then,  are  you  wedded, 
if  not  to  your  individual  life  here,  to  New  York? 
We  should  have  to  go  away  to  some  place  rather 
vague — " 

"Cuba,"  she  broke  in. 

The  irony  of  that  suggestion  carried  him  back  to 
the  many  vainly  projected  trips  there  with  Fanny. 
His  brother  was  in  Cuba,  it  was  true;  but  that  might 
turn  out  excellently:  Daniel  would  be  able  to  help 
them  in  the  difficult  readjustments  to  follow.  He  was 
intelligent,  unprejudiced  and  calm  and,  Lee  added. 

[303] 


CYTHEREA 

remote  from  the  values,  the  ponderous  authority,  of 
a  northern  hypocritical  society.  Then  he  forgot  that 
in  the  realization  that  Savina  was  going  away  with 
him,  that  she  was  to  be  his,  not  for  a  solitary  stolen 
night,  but  for  years  .  .  .  openly,  completely.  He 
lost  his  self  control  and  kissed  her,  heedless  of  the 
open  doors.  Now  she  was  cooler  than  Lee,  and  pushed 
him  away.  "William  will  be  in  at  any  minute,"  she 
explained : 

"When  shall  we  leave?" 

"We  might  take  a  train  tonight  for  Washington, 
since  we'll  need  passports  and  I  have  to  have  an  in 
come  tax  receipt,  and  we  can  manage  all  that  best 
there.  Then  Key  West,  Havana,  anywhere.  We 
will  hope  to  get  off  without  trouble;  but,  if  Grove 
interferes,  accept  the  consequences  as  they  come." 

"Very  well."  Savina  grew  still  quieter  as  the  march 
of  events  became  headlong.  "I  can  live  without  a 
maid  for  a  while.  Tonight  I  won't  dress  for  dinner, 
this  will  do  very  nicely  for  the  train ;  and  come  as  soon 
after  as  I  can  pack  a  bag.  There  will  be  literally 
nothing  in  it;  my  summer  things  are  all  out  of  reach. 
Washington  will  be  convenient  for  me,  too.  Unless 
you  want  to  see  William  again — "  She  rose. 

"Not  particularly,"  he  acknowledged;  "though  I 
wouldn't  drive  around  the  city  to  avoid  him.  Some 
how — I  may  be  blind — I  can't  think  that  I  am  doing 
him  an  infamous  wrong:  that  he  lost  you  proves  that. 
Why,  under  the  circumstances,  should  you,  anyone, 

[304] 


CYTHEREA 

stay?  I  don't  feel  a  particle  immoral,  or  even 
devilish.  It's  all  so  sensible  and  balanced  and  su 
perior.  No,  no,  let  William  watch  out  for  himself; 
his  club,  he's  so  devoted  to,  won't  fail  him.  Fanny 
and  he  will  have  their  whole  worlds  to  sympathize 
with  their  injury.  We  don't  need  sympathy." 

Lee  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  the  pig-skin  wrapped 
walking  stick  swinging  from  an  arm,  his  bearing  con 
fident  and  relaxed.  He  stopped  at  the  desk  for  a  con 
ference  with  the  porter — a  basket  of  fruit  from  the 
restaurant,  and,  if  procurable  regularly  or  irregularly, 
a  drawing-room  on  the  Washington  train.  Then  he 
went  up  and  closed  his  bag:  he  had  time  for  dinner 
and  several  cigars  afterwards;  he  wasn't  hungry,  but 
the  ceremony  would  kill  the  intervening  two  hours  and 
more. 

The  porter  found  him  later  and  delivered  his  tickets, 
including  the  check  for  a  drawing-room,  secured  as 
irregularly  as  possible  from  the  Pullman  conductor. 
There  were,  it  began  to  seem,  to  be  no  minor  annoy 
ances.  At  a  few  minutes  before  ten  he  was  standing, 
as  he  had  arranged  with  Savina,  with  his  bag  before 
the  hotel;  and,  just  past  the  hour,  the  cab  which  held 
her  turned  in  to  the  sidewalk.  She  had  two  bags, 
but  one  was  very  small — her  toilet  things,  she  ex 
plained — and  she  was  carrying  a  jewel  case.  There 
wasn't  a  tremor  in  her  voice  or  bearing,  the  slightest 
indication  that  they  were  going  farther  than  a  theatre 
in  the  vicinity  of  Forty-fourth  Street.  Internally,  Lee 

[305] 


CYTHEREA 

was  excited,  filled  with  the  long  strange  sense  of  holi 
day. 

"William  went  to  the  club,"  Savina  told  him  with  a 
smile  edged  with  malice;  "everything  was  as  usual 
when  he  left,  but  when  he  gets  back  it  will  be  changed. 
I'm  sorry  to  miss  his  expression  when  he  reads  the 
letter  I  wrote;  he  won't  show  it  to  anyone." 

"That  sounds  as  though  you  really  disliked  him," 
Lee  observed.  Then  he  remembered  the  hatred  he 
had  felt  for  Fanny.  Matrimony  had  a  brutal  hand 
for  superficial  relationships  and  conventions.  He  had 
spoken  lightly  but,  watching  her,  he  saw  the  grimness 
of  her  passion  strike  the  animation  from  her  face. 
The  jewel  case  slid  over  the  softness  of  her  wrap  to 
the  floor,  her  hand  crept  under  his  cuff,  clinging  to 
his  arm. 

Going  immediately  to  their  train,  they  found  the 
fruit  in  the  drawing-room ;  the  porter  stopped  to  knock 
at  the  door  and  discover  if  they  were  in  need  of  his 
attendance.  They  heard  dimly  the  train's  muffled 
boring  under  the  river  and  were  conscious  of  the 
swimming  lights  of  the  Jersey  plain,  the  confused 
illuminated  darkness  of  cities,  the  tranquility  of  open 
country,  the  ringing  echo  of  bridges  and  the  sustained 
wail  of  their  locomotive.  They  were,  again,  reaching 
Washington,  close  in  a  taxi-cab;  Savina's  jewel  case 
again  fell  unheeded;  and  again,  after  the  shortest 
halt  possible,  they  were  whirling  south  in  a  drawing- 

[306] 


CYTHEREA 

room  where  night  and  day  were  indistinguishable  one 
from  the  other. 

On  the  rear  platform  of  the  orange-painted  train 
moving  deliberately  along  the  Florida  coast  Lee  was 
first  aware  of  the  still,  saturating  heat;  that,  in  itself, 
was  enough  to  release  him  from  the  winter-like  grip 
of  Eastlake.  He  lost  all  sense  of  time,  of  hurry,  of 
the  necessity  of  occupation  as  opposed  to  idleness, 
of  idleness  contrasted  with  sleep.  The  promise  of 
satiation,  of  inevitability,  steeped  his  being  in  a  pleas 
ant  lethargy.  It  was  the  same  to  him  if  they  moved 
or  stopped,  whether  they  arrived  at  the  next  destina 
tion  or  remained  forever  in  a  sandy  monotony  of 
tomato  fields  or  by  a  slow  pass  of  water  cutting  the 
harshness  of  palmettos.  On  the  viaducts  he  gazed 
with  half-closed  eyes  across  the  sapphire  and  emerald 
green  and  purple  water;  or,  directly  under  him,  he 
looked  down  incuriously  into  a  tide  so  clear  that  it 
seemed  no  more  than  a  breath  ruffling  the  sand 
beneath. 

Savina,  who  had  discarded  cloth  for  dull  white 
linen — she  wished,  she  explained,  to  make  the  transi 
tion  as  sharply  as  possible — was  more  alertly  inter 
ested  in  their  constantly  shifting  surroundings;  they 
were  significant  to  her  as  the  milestones  of  her  in 
credible  escape.  On  the  steamer  for  Havana,  mark 
ing  their  effects  deposited  in  a  cabin  with  a  double 
iron  bed  and  unpleasantly  ubiquitous  basins,  she  ex- 

[307] 


CYTHEREA 

plained  to  Lee  that  she  never  got  seasick ;  but  he  might 
have  gathered  that,  she  pointed  out,  by  her  willing 
ness  to  undertake  Cuba.  Admitting  that  he  had 
missed  this  feminine  subtlety,  he  arranged  two  deck 
chairs  in  an  advantageous  angle,  and  they  sat  en 
veloped  in  a  mildness  which,  heavy  with  the  odor  of 
water-soaked  wood,  was  untroubled  by  any  wind. 
When  the  steamer  left  its  pier  Savina  put  a  hand  inside 
one  of  his.  The  harbor  lights  dropped,  pair  by  pair, 
back  into  the  night;  the  vibration  of  the  propeller 
became  a  sub-conscious  murmur;  over  the  placid  water 
astern  a  rippling  phosphorescence  was  stirred  and 
subsided.  A  motion,  increasing  by  imperceptible  de 
grees,  affected  the  deck;  there  was  a  rise  and  fall, 
regular  and  sleep-impelling:  the  uneasiness  of  the 
Gulf  Stream.  Havana  floated  into  their  waking 
vision,  a  city  of  white  marble  set  in  lustrous  green, 
profound  indigo,  against  the  rosy  veil  of  a  morning 
sun. 

The  fortunate  chance  that  took  them  to  the  In- 
glaterra  Hotel — the  disdain  of  its  runner  was  more 
persuasive  than  the  clamor  of  all  the  others  who  had 
boarded  the  steamer — found  them  a  room,  they  soon 
discovered,  in  what  was  at  once  the  most  desirable 
and  the  most  unlikely  place.  They  might  have  the 
chamber  until  Tuesday,  Lee  was  told,  in  an  English 
inflected  with  the  tonal  gravity  of  Spain.  It  was 
hardly  past  eight  in  the  morning,  an  awkward  hour 

[308] 


CYTHEREA 

to  arrive  newly  at  a  city,  he  thought,  as  they  were 
carried  up  in  the  elevator.  The  details  of  the  floor, 
the  hall,  they  crossed,  engaged  his  interest;  not  alone 
for  the  height  of  the  ceiling,  which  was  excessive, 
but  because  of  the  palms,  the  pointed  Moorish  arches 
filled  with  green  painted  wood  lattices;  the  totality 
of  an  effect  different  from  anything  else  he  had  seen. 

Their  room,  with  the  lift  of  the  ceiling  emphasized 
by  the  confined  space,  was  more  engaging  still:  tall 
slatted  doors  opened  on  an  iron  railed  balcony,  the 
bath-room  was  like  a  tunnel  on  end,  and  the  floor  an 
expanse  of  polished  mosaic  in  a  pattern  of  yellow 
and  grey.  Lee  walked  out  on  the  balcony;  directly 
below  and  across  a  narrow  paved  street  was  a  floridly 
impressive  building  obviously  for  the  purpose  of 
varied  assemblages,  and  on  his  left  a  park  was  laid 
in  concrete  walks,  royal  palms  on  towering  smooth 
dull  trunks,  unfamiliar  trees  with  a  graceful  dense 
foliage,  and  innumerable  stacked  iron  chairs  about 
the  marble  statue  of  a  man  with  a  pointing  hand. 
These  details,  however,  were  slowly  gathered  from 
an  effect  the  whole  of  which  was  bewilderingly  white, 
a  whiteness  intolerably  luminous  in  the  dazzling  bath 
of  the  sun. 

It  was  a  scene,  a  city,  Lee  recognized,  more  foreign 
to  his  own  than  any  he  knew  in  western  Europe;  a 
difference  that  existed  mainly  in  the  tropical  heat, 
visible  in  languorous  waves  rising  from  blanched  walls 
and  streets  already — so  early — fervent.  Savina  was 

[309] 


CYTHEREA 

filled  with  delight;  a  positive  color  glowed  in  place 
of  the  customary  uniform  pallor  of  her  cheeks;  she 
opened  her  bags  with  an  irresistible  youthful  energy. 
"Think  what  we  have  been  missing,"  she  called  above 
the  sound  of  the  water  running  into  the  tub;  "and 
what  we  accepted  so  long  for  living.  I  suppose  the 
wonderful  thing  is  that  we  escaped.  Lee,  do  you 
realize  that  almost  no  one  does?  They  never  never 
get  away,  but  go  from  one  grave,  from  one  winter, 
to  another.  Isn't  it  strange,  when  what  we  did  is 
so  very  easy. 

"I'd  like  to  tell  a  hundred  people  in  New  York 
that  they  could  get  away  too,  unfreeze  themselves. 
When  we  drove  horses  I  used  to  be  surprised  that  they 
went  along  so  quietly  in  blinders;  they  never  seemed 
to  learn  that  one  kick  would  break  into  splinters  the 
thing  dragging  on  them.  People  are  like  that,  I  was 
and  you  were,  too — in  blinders.  We've  torn  ours  off, 
Lee.  Tell  me  that  you  are  glad."  He  was,  without 
reserve.  Tranquilly  finding  his  razors,  he  was  aware 
ot  a  permeating  contentment  in  what  they  had  done. 
It  was  exactly  as  Savina  had  said — the  forces  which 
had  held  them  in  a  rigorous  northern  servitude  had 
proved,  upon  assault,  to  be  no  more  than  a  defense 
of  painted  prejudices,  the  canvas  embrasures  of  hypoc 
risy. 

"It  is  atonishing,  what  so  many  people  put  up  with," 
he  agreed;  "but  then,'"  Lee  added,  in  a  further  under 
standing,  "it  isn't  so  much  what  you  knock  down  as 

[310] 


CYTHEREA 

what  you  carry  away,  take  everywhere,  inside  you. 
When  an  arrangement  like  ours  fails,  that,  mostly, 
I  suspect,  is  the  cause.  It  needs  a  special  sort  of  fit 
ness.  Take  the  hundred  people  you  spoke  of — I'd  be 
willing  to  bet  not  five  of  them  could  get  away  from  the 
past,  or  put  out  of  their  minds  what  they  are  brought 
up  on.  Privately  they  would  think  they  were  wicked, 
damned,  or  some  such  truck;  and,  sure  enough,  that 
alone  would  finish  them." 

"I  haven't  a  speck  of  that,"  Savina  admitted 
serenely;  "I  am  happy.  And  I  don't  even  have  to 
ignore  the  thought  of  your  wife  and  children;  they'll 
get  along  just  as  well,  maybe  better,  without  you. 
William  doesn't  need  me;  he  hasn't  for  a  number  of 
years.  But  we  had  to  have  each  other." 

Lee  Randon  considered  this  in  relation  to  his  feel 
ing  that  he  had  not  left  Eastlake,  Fanny,  because  of 
Savina.  He  was  still  convinced  that  his  life  had 
fallen  apart  of  itself;  but  he  began  to  see  that  Savina 
had  been  more  deeply  involved  in  his  act  of  liberty 
than  he  had  suspected.  Without  her  it  was  probable 
that  he  would  have  continued  to  the  end  in  the  negative 
existence  of  Eastlake;  yet  no  amount  of  mere  as 
surance  that  that  was  the  only  admirable,  the  only 
permissible,  course  was  valid  with  him  unless  he  had 
a  corroborating  belief.  And  all  that  he  might  once 
have  possessed  had  left  him  at  the  final  blow  dealt 
by  the  passion  of  Savina  and  himself. 

She  had  been  stionger  than  the  assembled  forces 
[311] 


CYTHEREA 

of  heredity  and  precept  and  experience;  her  strength 
was  superhuman;  it  was  incredible  that  her  slender 
body  could  hold  such  an  impulse,  a  fury  really,  of 
vitality.  Women  must  have  been  like  that  in  earlier 
ages  of  humanity;  but  they  were  no  longer;  their 
passion  had  been  wasted,  spent,  or  turned  aside  into 
exhausting  by-paths  of  sensation.  He  had  finished 
shaving  and,  when  they  were  dressed,  they  went  down 
to  breakfast  in  a  dining-room  with  a  marble  floor  and 
walls  lustrous  with  bronze  tiling.  They  had  tall 
glasses  of  iced  orange  juice;  and,  with  the  last 
fragrant  draught  of  coffee,  Lee  lighted  a  long  bland 
cigar. 

"If  you  like,"  he  proceeded  comfortably,  "you  may 
rush  around  and  see  as  much  of  the  city  as  possible. 
There  is  a  big  omnibus  at  the  door.  Personally,  I 
am  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  intend  to  sit 
and  smoke,  and  then — smoke  and  sit.  I  am  done 
with  the  proper  and  expected  thing  in  every  one  of 
its  forms.  I  have  always  hated  churches;  and  the 
spots  where  soldiers  fell  or  martyrs  were  burned, 
monuments,  just  annoy  me;  and  picture  galleries  give 
me  colds  in  the  head.  Above  all  else  I  don't  want 
to  be  improved ;  if  I  hear  a  fact  of  any  sort  I  am  going 
to  bed  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

"I  don't  care  about  those,  either,"  Savina  assented; 
"but  the  stores,  yes.  I  have  to  have  a  mantilla  and 
a  high  comb  right  away,  now;  and — I  warn  you — 
if  it's  only  in  our  room  I'm  going  to  wear  them.  If 

[312] 


CYTHEREA 

I  could  get  you  into  it  I'd  bring  back  a  shell  jacket 
covered  with  green  braid  and  a  wide  scarlet  sash, 
or  whatever  an  espada  wears." 

"A  guitar  and  a  carnation  ought  to  do,"  he  re 
sponded.  "Count  on  me  for  nothing  until  the  even 
ing,  when,  if  you  care  to,  we'll  drive  along  the  sea,  one 
way  and  then  the  other,  and  have  dinner  where  we 
happen  to  be.  I  hope  you  will  wear  the  most  ex 
travagant  and  holiday  clothes — white,  and  very  ruf 
fled  and  thin,  would  be  nice,  with  emeralds." 

"It's  a  good  thing  I  have  a  lot  of  money,"  she 
observed;  "you  have  some,  of  course,  but  it  wouldn't 
begin  to  support  your  ambitions." 

"I  don't  even  care  which  of  us  has  it,"  he  admitted; 
"so  it's  there.  A  year  ago  I  should  have  looked 
pained  and  insisted  that  I  couldn't  accept,  nor  allow 
you  to  use,  your  own  money.  I  don't  exactly  have 
to  ask  you  for  a  taxi-cab  fare,  though,  luckily;  but 
if  you  did  bring  the  emeralds  I  saw  you  wearing  in 
New  York  don't  throw  them  away  on  my  account." 

"They  are  here,"  she  assured  him.  "William  gave 
them  to  me  when  we  were  married." 

"Splendid,  together  with  Fanny's  pearl,"  he  replied 
placidly;  "I  was  afraid  they  had  been  a  legacy  from 
your  mother.  I  much  prefer  them  to  have  been  Wil 
liam's — it  will  give  them  such  a  Utopian  sparkle." 

When  Savina  had  gone,  in  a  long  brightly-painted 
car  summoned  from  the  line  backed  at  the  plaza's 
edge,  Lee  Randon  returned  to  their  room.  The  heat 

[313] 


CYTHEREA 

of  the  day,  approaching  noon,  the  ceaseless  noise  of 
Havana,  rose  diffused  to  the  balcony  where  he  sat 
until  the  circling  sunlight  forced  him  to  move  inside. 
What  amazing  comfort!  A  curiously  impersonal 
admiration  for  Savina  grew  with  the  understanding  of 
her  exceptionally  perceptive  being.  She  was  what, 
above  all  else,  he  would  have  chosen  for  a  companion : 
her  extraordinary  feeling  was  sheathed,  tempered,  in 
the  satin  of  a  faultless  aesthetic  sense;  the  delicacy  of 
her  body  was  resembled  by  the  fineness  of  her  feminine 
mind;  she  was  entirely,  deliciously,  decorative.  The 
black  brocade  mules  by  her  bed  were  characteristic 
of  her — useless  charming  objects  that  had  cost  twenty, 
thirty,  dollars.  Their  sliding  tap  on  the  glazed  floor 
was  an  appreciable  part  of  his  happiness;  Savina's 
bottles  on  a  dressing-table  were  engraved  crystal  with 
gold  stoppers:  it  was  all  as  it  should  be. 

When  she  returned  she  redressed  her  hair,  drawing 
it  back  across  her  ears,  put  in  at  a  provocative  angle 
a  fan-like  carved  shell  comb,  and  twisted  a  shawl  of 
flame-colored  silk — it  was  a  manton,  she  instructed 
him — about  her  shoulders.  The  guise  of  Andalusia 
was  very  becoming  to  her.  For  a  dinner,  Savina  wore 
the  filmy  white  and  emeralds;  they  went  to  a  res 
taurant  like  a  pavilion  on  a  roof,  their  table,  by  a  low 
masonry  wall,  overlooking  the  harbor  entrance.  The 
heat  of  the  day,  cloaked  in  night,  was  cooled  by  the 
trade  wind  moving  softly  across  the  sea;  the  water  of 

[314] 


CYTHEREA 

the  harbor  was  black,  like  jet  shining  with  the  reflec 
tions  of  the  lights  strung  along  the  shore;  the  light 
house  at  Morro  Castle  marked  the  rocky  thrust  of  the 
land.  The  restaurant  was  crowded :  beyond  Lee  were 
four  officers  of  the  Spanish  navy  in  snowy  linen  and 
corded  gilt;  in  the  subdued  light  the  faces  of  women, 
under  wide  flowery  hats,  were  illusive  and  fascinating; 
everywhere  the  deep  crimson  of  Castilian  wines  was 
set  against  the  amber  radiance  of  champagne. 

Directly  below,  shadowy  trees  hid  the  stone  margin 
of  the  bay,  and  an  enormous  tripod,  such  as  might  be 
used  for  removing  the  cargoes  of  ships,  raised  its 
primitive  simplicity.  "Look,  Lee!"  Savina  laid  a 
hand  on  his  wrist.  A  steamer,  incredibly  large  and 
near,  was  moving  slowly  out  through  the  narrow  chan 
nel  to  the  sea.  Rows  of  golden  lights  shone  on  its 
decks  and  from  the  port-holes,  and  a  drift  of  music 
reached  him.  "Some  day  soon,"  she  went  on,  "we'll 
take  a  boat  like  that,  and  go — where?  It  doesn't 
matter:  to  a  far  strange  land.  Hills  scented  with 
tea  flowers.  Streets  with  lacquered  houses.  Villages 
with  silver  bells  hung  along  the  eaves.  Valleys  of 
primroses  under  mountains  of  ice.  We'll  see  them  all 
from  little  windows,  and  then  it  will  be  night.  But, 
principally,  we  will  never  go  back — never!  never! 
never !  We  will  be  together  for  years.  Let's  go  to  the 
hotel  now;  Lee.  I  am  rather  tired;  it's  the  heat,  don't 
you  think?  I  am  worn,  and,  because  I  am  so  happy,  a 
trifle  dizzy.  Not  much.  Nothing  to  worry  about. 

[315] 


CYTHEREA 

But  I  only  want  you,  Lee ;  in  my  heart  I  don't  care  for 
the  valleys  and  bells  and  scents." 

Yet,  before  they  reached  the  hotel  they  stopped, 
Savina  insisted,  for  cocktails  of  Bacardi  rum,  fragrant 
with  fresh  limes  and  sweet  with  a  crust  of  sugar  that 
remained  at  the  bottoms  of  the  glasses.  In  the  night 
— their  beds  were  separated  by  the  width  of  the  bal 
cony  doors — she  called  for  him,  acute  with  fright. 
"What  is  it?"  she  cried.  "Hark,  Lee,  that  horrible 
sound."  The  air  was  filled  with  a  drumming  wail,  a 
dislocated  savage  music,  that  affected  him  like  a  night 
mare  grown  audible. 

"It's  coming  from  across  the  street,  from  the  Opera 
House,"  he  told  her;  "some  kind  of  a  dance,  I'm 
certain."  Patently  it  was  an  orchestra,  but  the  instru 
ments  that  composed  it,  the  measures  woven  of  frantic 
screaming  notes  and  dull  stale  iterations,  he  had  no 
means  of  identifying.  "Bedlam  in  the  jungle,"  he 
said  soothingly.  She  wished  it  would  stop.  Soon  he 
agreed  with  her;  without  pause,  without  variation, 
with  an  insistence  which  became  cruel,  and  then  un 
bearable,  it  went  on.  Lee  Randon,  after  an  uneasi 
ness  which  culminated  in  an  exasperated  wrath,  found 
a  degree  of  exactness  in  his  description:  it  was,  un 
doubtedly,  the  jungle,  Africa,  debased  into  a  peculiarly 
harrowing  travesty  of  later  civilized  emotions.  Fi 
nally  he  lost  the  impression  of  a  meaninglessness ;  it 
assumed  a  potency,  a  naked  reality,  more  profound 
than  anything  in  his  previous  knowledge.  It  was  the 

[316] 


CYTHEREA 

voice  of  a  crazed  and  debased  passion.  To  Lee,  it 
seemed  to  strip  him  of  his  whiteness,  his  continence, 
his  integrity,  to  flay  him  of  every  particle  of  restraint 
and  decency,  and  set  him,  bestial  and  exposed,  in  a 
ball  room  with  glass-hung  chandeliers. 

Incomprehensibly  the  fluctuating  clamor — he  could 
distinguish  low  pitched  drums — brought  him  the  vi 
sion,  pale  and  remote  and  mysteriously  smiling,  of 
Cytherea.  He  thought  of  that  torrential  discord  rising 
around  her  belled  purple  skirt,  the  cool  yellow  of  her 
waist  crossed  with  fragile  lace,  beating  past  her  lifted 
slender  hand,  the  nails  stained  with  vermilion,  to  the 
pointed  oval  of  her  face  against  the  black  hair  and 
streaming  gold  of  the  headdress.  Nothing,  it  ap 
peared,  could  be  farther  apart  than  the  muffled  furious 
strains  escaping  in  bursts  through  the  opened  windows 
beyond  and  the  still  apparition  from  the  tranquility  of 
his  Eastlake  house.  He  would  have  said,  unhesitat 
ingly,  that  the  formal  melody  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
of  Scarlatti  and  harpsichords,  was  the  music  that  best 
accompanied  Cytherea.  But  she  dominated,  haunted 
with  her  grace,  the  infernal  dinning  sound  of  unspeak 
able  defilements.  Savina  was  racked  beyond  endur 
ance: 

"I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,"  she  told  Lee  hyster 
ically,  risen  with  her  palms  pressed  to  her  ears. 
"I  can  hear  it  with  every  nerve.  It  will  never  go  out 
of  my  brain.  You  must  stop  it.  Can't  you  under 
stand  that  it  is  driving  me  mad ! "  Her  voice  grew  so 

[317] 


CYTHEREA 

shrill,  she  trembled  so  violently,  that  he  had  to  hold 
her  forcibly  in  his  arms.  When,  toward  dawn,  it 
ceased,  Savina  was  exhausted ;  she  lay  limp  and  white 
on  her  bed;  and,  across  the  room,  he  could  hear  the 
shallowness  of  her  irregular  breathing.  As  a  grey 
light  diluted  the  darkness,  the  trade  wind,  the  night 
wind,  dropped,  and  the  heat  palpably  increased.  In 
stantaneously  the  sun-flooded  morning  was  born,  a 
morning  that  lost  its  freshness,  its  pearly  iridescence, 
immediately.  He  closed  the  slats  of  the  balcony 
doors:  Savina  at  last  was  sleeping,  with  her  counte 
nance,  utterly  spent,  turned  to  him.  The  sharp  cries 
of  the  newsboys,  the  street  vendors,  were  drowned  in  the 
full  sweep  of  a  traffic  moving  to  the  blasts  of  multi 
tudinous  horns.  When  she  woke,  past  ten,  drinking 
the  small  cup  of  black  coffee  which  locally  accom 
panied  dressing,  she  was  still  shaken.  "That's  the 
most  cursed  racket  anyone  ever  had  to  endure!" 
A  growing  irritation  made  harsh  his  voice.  "You 
couldn't  torment  a  worse  sound  out  of  a  thousand 
cats."  She  smiled  wanly.  "If  we  were  like  that  in  the 
past,"  he  added,  "I'm  glad  we  changed,  even  if  we 
are  worse  in  other  ways." 

"I  could  hear  myself  screaming  and  screaming," 
Savina  said.  In  the  heated  room  she  had  an  uncon 
trollable  chill.  "Lee,  I  can't  bring  myself  to  tell 
you:  something  black  and  dreadful  .  .  .  had  me. 
There  was  no  one  else.  It  was  like  a  woods.  The 

[318] 


CYTHEREA 

hands  ripping  at  me — "  With  her  face  buried  in  her 
embroidered  pillow,  half  clothed  in  web-like  garments 
threaded  with  black  ribbons,  she  cowered  in  an  abject 
and  pitiful  agony. 

Later,  he  discovered  that,  within  the  scope  of  his 
possible  knowledge,  his  conjecture  had  been  right:  a 
danzon,  a  native  Cuban  ball — not,  the  director  of  the 
Inglaterra  gave  him  to  understand,  entirely  respectable 
— had  been  held  in  the  Opera  House.  "But  there 
won't  be  another  until  after  we  leave,"  Lee  reassured 
Savina;  "they  are  rather  rare  except  at  carnival." 
She  shuddered.  It  was  evident  that  the  distressing 
effect  on  her  of  the  music  lingered  through  the  day; 
her  energy  gave  way  to  a  passive  contentment  hardly 
removed  from  listlessness. 

They  drove,  at  the  end  of  afternoon,  on  the  Malecon, 
following  the  curving  sea  wall  from  La  Purita  to  the 
scattered  villas  of  Vedado.  The  sea  and  sky  were 
grey ;  or  was  it  blue  ?  At  the  horizon  they  met  without 
a  perceptible  change ;  the  water  became  the  air,  the  air 
water,  with  a  transition  as  gradual  as  the  edge  of  dusk. 
The  tropical  evening  was  accomplished  rapidly,  as 
dramatically  as  the  uprush  of  the  sun:  they  were  gaz 
ing  into  the  distance  over  a  tide  like  a  smooth  undu 
lating  mist  .  .  .  and  there  were  lights  crowning  the 
Cabanas  fortress;  the  passing  cars  made  the  familiar 
geometrical  patterns  with  the  cold  bars  of  their  lamps; 
they  were  wrapped  in  darkness ;  night  had  come. 

Savina  didn't  want  to  go  back  to  the  hotel,  their 
[319] 


CYTHEREA 

room;  and,  after  dinner  at  the  Paris,  they  went  to  Car- 
melo,  where  they  alternated  northern  dances  with  the 
stridor  of  a  northern  cabaret  and  drinks.  Savina's 
spirits  revived  slowly.  To  Lee  she  seemed  to  have 
changed  in  appearance  since  she  left  New  York — here, 
losing  her  air  of  a  constant  reserve,  she  looked  younger, 
daring.  Her  sharp  grace,  exposed  in  the  films  of  sum 
mer  dress,  had  an  aspect  of  belonging,  rather  than  to 
the  character  she  had  deserted,  to  a  woman  at  once  con 
scious  of  its  effect  and  not  unwilling  to  have  it  meas 
ured  by  the  appraising  gaze  of  the  masculine  public. 
In  a  way,  without  losing  her  distinction,  she  had  be 
come  evident;  another  woman,  one  less  admirably  bal 
anced,  would  have  been  conspicuous.  Havana  was 
like  a  stage  on  which  Savina — with  a  considered 
bravado  they  had  kept  the  Randon — tried  with  intoxi 
cating  success  a  part  she  had  long  and  secretly  desired. 

What,  Lee  found,  he  most  enjoyed  was  the  personal 
liberty  he  had  first  experienced  in  New  York,  waiting 
to  see  Savina  after  he  had  definitely  left  Eastlake.  All 
the  aspects  of  his  circumferential  existence,  island-like 
in  the  dividing  indigo  of  a  magic  sea,  pleased  him 
equally.  Of  course,  without  Savina  Cuba  would  have 
been  an  impossibility;  she  was  the  center,  the  motive, 
of  the  design  of  his  emotions;  but  it  was  surprising 
how  contented  he  was  strolling  in  the  outskirts,  in  the 
minor  parks  and  glorietas  and  paseos,  of  the  world  of 

[320] 


CYTHEREA 

his  passionate  adventure.  He  sat  placidly  in  the 
Cortina  de  Valdez,  looking  across  the  narrow  water  to 
the  long  pink  wall  of  the  Cabanas,  while  Savina  drove 
and  shopped  and  rested.  Carefully  avoiding  the 
Americans  at  the  Inglaterra,  on  the  streets,  he  had  no 
burden  of  empty  mutual  assurances,  the  forced  stupid 
ities  of  conversations,  to  support.  His  days  all  had 
the  look  of  a  period  of  rest  after  a  strain  of  long 
duration. 

The  strain,  he  realized,  unknown  to  him  at  the  time, 
had  existed  negatively  through  years  before  he  had 
grown  openly  rebellious.  A  quality  within  him,  in 
spite  of  him,  had  risen  and  swept  him,  under  the  eyes 
of  Cytherea,  beyond  every  circumstance  of  his  former 
life.  The  resemblance  between  her  and  Savina  he 
caught  in  fleet  glances  which  defied  his  efforts  to  sum 
mon  them;  and,  where  that  similitude  was  concerned, 
he  was  aware  of  a  disconcerting,  almost  humiliating, 
shifting  of  balance.  At  first,  recognizing  aspects  of 
Cytherea  in  Savina,  now  in  Cytherea  he  merely  found 
certain  qualities  of  the  woman.  The  doll,  it  seemed, 
had  not  been  absorbed  in  Savina ;  the  distant  inanimate 
object  was  more  real  than  the  actual  straining  arms 
about  his  neck,  the  insatiable  murmur  at  his  ear.  Yet 
his  happiness  with  Savina  was  absolute,  secure;  and 
still  totally  different  from  her  attitude  toward  him. 
She  often  repeated,  in  a  voice  no  longer  varying  from 
her  other  impassioned  speech,  that  she  loved  him;  and, 

[321] 


CYTHEREA 

while  this  was  a  phrase,  a  reassurance,  no  man  in  his 
situation  could  escape,  he  returned  it  in  a  manner  not 
wholly  ringing  with  conviction. 

It  was  the  old  difficulty — he  wasn't  sure,  he  couldn't 
satisfy  himself,  about  its  meaning.  He  was  not,  for 
example,  lost  beyond  knowledge  or  perception  in  his 
feeling  for  Savina;  carried  along  in  the  tempestuous 
flood  of  her  emotion,  he  yet  had  time  to  linger  over 
and  enjoy  the  occurrences  by  the  way.  He  liked  each 
day  for  itself,  and  she  regarded  it  only  as  an  insignif 
icant  detail  of  their  unity.  All  her  planning,  her 
dress  and  ardor  and  moods,  were  directed  to  one  never- 
lost-sight-of  end;  but  he  disposed  his  attention  in  a 
hundred  channels.  Lee  began  to  be  aware  of  the 
tremendous  single  economy  of  women,  the  constant 
teulmg  back  of  their  instincts  to  a  single  preeminent 
purpose. 

Yet  everywhere,  now,  women  had  concentrated  in  a 
denial  of  that:  the  men  he  knew  hadn't  a  monopoly  of 
restlessness.  Even  Fanny,  in  the  parading  of  all  her 
rings,  had  not  been  oblivious  of  it.  But  it  wasn't  so 
much  that  women  denied  their  fundamental  urgency 
as  it  was  that  they  wanted  it  exercised  under  other, 
more  rapturous,  conditions.  Inexplicably,  and  a 
great  many  at  once,  women  had  grown  aware  of  the 
appalling  difference  between  what  they  might  demano! 
and  what  they  had  been  receiving.  In  consequence  of 
this  the  world  of  masculine  complacency  was  being 
dealt  some  rude  blows.  But  Lee  Randon  couldn't 

[322] 


CYTHEREA 

hope  to  go  into  this ;  the  problem  was  sufficiently  com 
plicated  from  his  side  of  the  fence.  There  were, 
immediately,  the  practical  developments  of  his  under 
taking  to  be  met.  He  served  nothing  by  putting  them 
off.  He  must  write,  but  through  his  lawyers,  to 
William  Grove  and  find  out  what  action  he  proposed 
to  take,  what  arrangements  for  divorce  could  be  facili 
tated.  A  letter — there  could  be  no  saving  imperson 
ality  here — to  Fanny  was  more  difficult. 

From  Havana,  his  approval  of  Fanny  was  very 
complete;  he  understood  her,  made  allowances,  now 
better  than  at  any  time  during  their  marriage;  given 
what,  together,  they  were,  her  conduct  had  been  admi 
rable.  A  remarkably  attractive  and  faithful  woman, 
he  told  himself;  it  was  a  pity  that,  in  her  estimation, 
her  good  qualities  had  come  to  so  little.  The  thing 
for  him  to  do  was  to  see  his  brother,  and  move  part  of 
the  burden  of  his  decisions  over  to  Daniel's  heavy 
frame. 

The  sugar  estate  of  which  he  was  Administrador 
was  in  the  Province  of  Camagiiey,  at  Cobra ;  an  over 
night  trip  from  Havana,  Lee  had  learned.  It  was 
Sunday  evening  now,  and  they  would  have  to  give  up 
their  room  at  the  Inglaterra  Tuesday.  Obviously 
there  wasn't  time  to  write  Daniel  and  have  a  reply  by 
then.  The  other  desirable  hotels  were  as  full  as  the 
Inglaterra.  He  must  wire,  but  the  composition  of  his 
telegram  presented  an  unexpected  difficulty: 

Lee  didn't  know  how  to  explain  the  presence  with 
[323] 


CYTHEREA 

him  of  Savina;  he  couldn't  determine  how  much  or 
how  little  to  say;  and  it  was  probable  that  Daniel  had 
had  a  cable  from  Eastlake.  The  mere  putting  down 
of  the  necessary  words  of  his  message,  under  the  con 
cerned  gaze  of  a  clerk,  with  a  limited  comprehension  of 
English,  was  hazardous.  The  clerk,  he  had  discov 
ered,  would  read  in  a  loud  voice  of  misplaced  linguistic 
confidence  whatever  Lee  wrote,  and  there  was  a  small 
assemblage  of  Americans  at  the  counter  of  a  steam 
ship  company  across  the  office.  What,  it  began  to  ap 
pear,  they'd  have  to  do  would  be  to  take  the  train  for 
Cobra  on  Tuesday.  Yet  they  couldn't  quite  come 
down  on  Daniel  so  unexpectedly;  he  lived,  Lee  re 
called,  on  a  batey,  the  central  dominating  point  of 
a  sugar  estate;  and — unmarried — what  accommoda 
tions  he  might  offer  were  problematic.  Lee,  from  the 
heading  of  a  letter,  could  not  build  the  proportions  of 
a  Casa  Vivienda.  Well,  there  would  be  a  hotel  at 
Cobra!  That  answered  his  doubts — Savina  and  he 
would  go  to  Cobra  and  there  communicate  with  Daniel. 
It  would  be  easy  to  talk  privately  with  him.  Lee 
didn't  want  his  approval,  but  only  his  careful  opinions 
and  reasonable  assistance. 

He,  Lee,  would  not  produce  Savina  with  the  tri 
umphant  indication  that  her  resistless  charm  explained 
everything.  He  was  no  such  fatuous  fool!  But, 
studying  her,  he  got  a  solid  assurance  from  the 
superiority  of  her  person.  Daniel  would  see  at  once 
that  this  wasn't  the  usual  flight  south  of  an  indulgence 

[324] 


CYTHEREA 

headed  for  paresis.  Savina,  his  entire  affair,  de* 
manded  a  dignified  reception.  They  were  seated  in 
the  patio  of  the  hotel,  by  a  pool  and  the  heroic  bronze 
statue  of  a  dancing  girl  in  a  manton;  on  the  table 
between  them  was,  at  that  hour,  the  inevitable  small 
pitcher  of  Daiquiri  cocktails.  He  told  Savina  what 
had  been  in  his  thoughts,  and  she  nodded  her  ap 
proval  : 

"I  agree  that  we  ought  to  see  your  brother,  and, 
through  him,  communicate  with  New  York.  At 
present  things  are  much  too  uncertain.  If  William, 
or  your  wife,  were  different  they  could  have  us  held 
on  a  very  unpleasant-sounding  charge.  I  know  you 
detest  conventions,  but  I  must  say  I  am  glad  other 
people  live  by  them;  it  makes  it  so  comfortable  for 
us.  Imagine,  if  William  were  a  vulgar  man,  the 
fuss!  But,"  she  admitted,  "at  bottom  I  shouldn't 
have  cared.  You  are  not  half  as  disreputable  as  I 
am,  Lee.  You  have  a  proper  look  at  this  minute." 

"Really,"  he  protested,  "there  is  no  reason  for  you 
to  be  insulting,  when  I  deliberately  led  you  astray." 

"You  do  flatter- yourself,"  Savina  replied;  "when  it 
was  I  all  the  time:  I  broke  up  your  home." 

"You  needn't  boast  so  loudly  and  pain  everyone 
about  us,"  he  protested  cheerfully.  She  gazed  con 
temptuously  at  the  surrounding  tables: 

"The  scheming  presidents  of  concessions  and  their 
fat  wives.  Have  you  noticed  the  men  hurrying  away 
apologetically  in  the  evening,  Lee?  The  places  on 

[325] 


CYTHEREA 

Sol  and  Gloria  Streets!  And,  just  as  you  meant, 
if  they  knew  who,  what,  we  were,  they'd  want  to 
have  us  arrested.  You  see^  I  am  infringing  on  the 
privileges  sacred  to  men.  It's  all  right  for  them  to 
do  this,  to  go  out  to  an  appointment  after  ten  o'clock 
and  come  back  at  two  satisfied — " 

"Savina,"  he  interrupted  her,  "I  know  all  that  you 
were  going  to  say,  I  could  repeat  it  to  you  in  your  own 
words.  You  were  about  to  assault  the  double  stand 
ard.  Consider  it  done.  You  are  right.  Everyone 
with  sense  is  right  there.  But  if  I  hear  it  again  I'll 
think  I  am  at  Aeolian  Hall  listening  to  an  English 
author  lecture.  I'll  put  you  in  your  car  on  Forty- 
second  Street  and  send  you  home." 

"You  can't  send  me  home,"  she  reminded  him; 
"you  are  too  proper  and  have  too  many  scruples. 
You'll  have  to  stay  with  me  now  for  life.  I  am 
ruined."  They  laughed  happily. 

"You  are,"  he  echoed  her. 

"Isn't  it  nice?" 

"Nothing  better  could  be  invented." 

She  investigated  the  pitcher.     "The  last  drop." 

Lee  Randon  signalled  for  the  waiter,  but  she 
stopped  him;  the  strained  intensity  of  her  face,  the 
shining  darkness  of  her  eyes,  set  his  heart  pounding. 

They  left  for  Cobra  without  even  the  formality  of 
a  telegraphed  announcement  to  Daniel  Randon. 
Their  compartment,  in  the  middle  of  the  car,  with 

[326] 


CYTHEREA 

the  more  casual  open  accommodations  at  either  end, 
resolute  in  its  bare  varnished  coolness,  indicated  what 
degree  of  heat  they  might  expect  in  the  interior.  The 
progress  of  the  train  through  the  length  of  the  island 
was  slow  and  irregular:  Lee  had  a  sense  of  insecure 
tracks,  of  an  insufficient  attention  to  details  of  trans 
portation  that  required  an  endless,  untiring  oversight. 
Naturally  they  slept  badly;  and  the  morning  showed 
them  a  wide  plain  scattered  with  royal  palms  which 
thickened  in  the  distance.  Such  vast  groves,  Lee 
thought,  robbed  them  of  the  stateliness  so  impressive 
in  parks  and  cities.  The  landscape,  tangled  with 
lianas  or  open  about  massive  and  isolated  ceiba  trees, 
was  without  the  luxuriance  of  color  he  had  expected. 
It  was  evident  that  there  had  been  no  rain  for  a  long 
period;  and  the  crowded  growths,  grey  rather  than 
green,  were  monotonous,  oppressive.  Other  than 
Apollinaris  and  the  conventional  black  coffee  of  the 
train,  and  oranges  bought  by  Lee  at  a  junction,  no 
breakfast  was  possible;  and  they  watched  uninter 
ruptedly  the  leisurely  passing  land.  Marks  of  sugar 
planting  multiplied,  the  cane,  often  higher  than  Lee's 
head,  was  cut  into  sections  by  wide  lanes;  and  an 
nounced  by  a  sickly  odor  of  fermentation,  he  saw,  with 
a  feeling  of  disappointment,  the  high  corrugated  iron 
sides  of  a  grinding  mill.  It  was  without  any  saving 
picturesque  quality;  and  the  noise  of  its  machinery,  a 
heavy  crushing  rumble,  was  perceptible  on  the  train. 
However,  Savina  was  attracted  by  the  high  carts, 
[327] 


CYTHEREA 

on  two  solid  wheels,  and  drawn  by  four  or  six  oxen, 
hauling  the  cut  cane.  But  the  villages  they  passed, 
single  streets  of  unrelieved  squalor  in  a  dusty  waste, 
they  decided  were  immeasurably  depressing.  No  one 
who  could  avoid  it  walked;  lank  men  in  broad  straw 
hats  and  coat-like  shirts  rode  meagre  horses  with  the 
sheaths  of  long  formidable  blades  slapping  their  miser 
able  hides.  Groups  of  fantastically  saddled  horses 
drooped  their  heads  tied  in  the  vicinity  of  a  hands- 
breadth  of  shade  by  general  stores.  "I  could  burst 
into  tears,"  Savina  declared.  But  he  showed  her 
pastures  of  rich  tufted  grass  with  herds  of  well- 
conditioned  cattle.  "I  wish  we  were  there,"  she  said. 
But,  when  the  train  stopped  at  Cobra,  Savina,  hesi 
tating  on  the  step,  proposed  that  they  go  on  into 
Camagiiey,  hardly  more  than  an  hour  distant. 

Their  bags,  put  off,  the  rapid  incomprehensible 
speech  of  the  guard,  left  them,  with  the  train  moving 
doubtfully  on,  at  Cobra.  It  was,  on  examination, 
more  dismal  than,  from  the  detachment  of  the  com 
partment,  they  had  realized.  The  usual  baked  ground, 
the  dusty  underbrush,  the  blank  fagades  of  the  low 
buildings  that  faced  them  from  either  side  of  the 
tracks,  had — in  addition  to  a  supreme  ugliness — an 
indefinably  threatening  air.  The  rawness,  the  ma 
chetes  hanging  about  the  booted  heels  of  soiled  idlers, 
the  presence  everywhere  of  negroes  with  an  unre 
strained  curiosity  in  Lee  and  his  companion,  filled  him 
with  an  instinctive  antagonism.  "Do  you  think  that 

[328] 


CYTHEREA 

can  be  the  hotel?''  he  asked,  indicating  a  long  plaster 
building  with  a  shallow  upper  porch  supported  on 
iron-footed  wooden  columns.  Above  its  closely-shut 
tered  windows,  in  letters  faded  and  blistered  by  the 
sun,  reached  the  description,  "Hotel  de  Cobra." 

"We  can't  stay  there,"  he  continued  decidedly;  "I'll 
send  for  Daniel  at  once." 

Without  available  help  he  carried  their  bags  to  the 
entrance  of  the  hotel,  and  went  into  a  darkened  room 
with  a  cement  floor  which  had  the  thick  dampness  of 
an  interior  saturated  with  spilled  acid  wine.  There 
he  found  a  man,  not  different  from  those  outside, 
who,  incapable  of  understanding  English,  managed 
to  grasp  the  fact  that  Lee  wished  to  see  Daniel  Ran- 
don  immediately.  The  proprietor  assented,  and 
urged  them  up  a  stair.  "I  won't  have  you  wait  out 
here,"  Lee  told  Savina;  "it  will  be  only  for  an  hour 
or  so."  The  room  into  which  they  were  ushered  had, 
at  least,  the  advantage  of  bareness :  there  was  a  ward 
robe  of  mahogany  leaning  precariously  forward,  a 
double  bed  deeply  sagged  with  a  grey-white  covering, 
a  wash  stand  and  tin  basin  and  pitcher,  and  some 
short  sturdy  rush-bottomed  chairs. 

Its  principal  feature,  however,  was  the  blue  paint 
that  covered  the  walls,  a  blue  of  a  particularly  in 
sistent  shade  which,  in  the  solidity  of  its  expanse, 
seemed  to  make  all  the  enclosed  space  and  objects 
livid.  The  tall  shutters  on  one  side,  Lee  discovered, 
opened  on  the  upper  porch  and  a  prospect  of  the  tracks 

[329] 


CYTHEREA 

beyond.  "If  I  stayed  here  a  night  I'd  be  raving," 
Savina  declared.  "Lee,  such  a  color!  And  the  place, 
the  people — did  you  notice  that  carriageful  of  black 
women  that  went  by  us  along  the  street?  There  were 
only  three,  but  they  were  so  loosely  fat  that  they 
filled  every  inch.  Their  faces  were  drenched  with 
powder  and  you  could  see  their  revolting  breasts 
through  their  muslin  dresses;  terrible  creatures  reek 
ing  with  unspeakable  cologne.  They  laughed  at  me, 
cursed  us,  I  am  sure." 

"We'll  have  to  put  up  with  it  till  Daniel  comes," 
he  observed  philosophically;  and,  on  the  low  straight 
chairs,  they  gazed  around  so  disgustedly  that  they  both 
laughed.  "I  suppose  he  is  out  somewhere  in  the 
cane."  Savina  asked  what  they  would  do  if  he  were 
away.  He  might  be  in  Santiago.  The  company  had 
other  estates.  "Not  now,"  Lee  decided;  "what  they 
call  the  grinding  season  has  just  begun,  and  every 
hour  is  important.  The  least  thing  gone  wrong 
might  cost  thousands  of  dollars."  The  correctness 
of  his  assumption  was  upheld  by  an  announcement 
unintelligible  except  for  the  comforting  fact  that 
Daniel  was  below. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  see  him  first,"  Lee  suggested 
diplomatically,  and  Savina  assented. 

Daniel  Randon  was  both  tall  and  fat,  a  slow  im 
pressive  bulk  in  white  linen  with  a  smooth  impassive 
face  and  considering  brown  eyes.  "This,"  he  said 
unremarkably,  "is  a  surprise.  But  I  am,  of  course, 

[330] 


CYTHEREA 

glad;  particularly  since  Venalez  reported  that  Fanny 
was  with  you." 

"She  isn't,"  Lee  replied  tersely;  there  had  been  no 
cable  from  Eastlake,  he  saw,  and  he  must  plunge 
boldly  into  what  he  had  to  say.  "I  am  sorry  to  tell 
you  that  she  is  at  home.  But  I'm  here,  and  not  by  my 
self."  A  slight  expression  of  annoyance  twitched  at 
his  brother's  contained  mouth.  "No,  you  are  making 
a  mistake.  I  have  left  Fanny,  Daniel.  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  have  heard." 

"Our  telegraph  system  is  undependable,"  was  all 
that  the  other,  the  younger,  Randon  answered. 

"You  don't  know,  then.  A  Mrs.  Grove  is  with  me; 
but  she  is  that  only  until  the  divorces  can  be  arranged ; 
and  I  counted  on  you — " 

"Divorces?"  The  single  word  was  accompanied  by 
a  faint  lifting  of  Daniel's  eyebrows. 

"She  was  married,  too,"  Lee  explained.  "You  will 
understand  better  when  you  talk  to  Savina.  We  are 
not  young  feather-heads,  Daniel;  this  is  serious,  final. 
Really,  we  came  to  Cuba  on  your  account,  to  see  you. 
When  I  tried  to  compose  a  telegram  from  Havana, 
telling  you  something  of  the  situation,  I  couldn't — 
all  the  idiotic  tourists  hanging  about!  Well,  here 
we  are,  or  here  I  am,  and  Savina  is  upstairs,  most 
anxious  to  meet  you." 

"Certainly,"  Daniel  Randon  agreed.  He  was  silent 
for  a  moment  in  the  consideration  of  what  he  had  been 
told.  Then,  "I  can't  have  you  on  the  batey,"  he 

[331] 


CYTHEREA 

pronounced.  He  lifted  a  silencing  hand  against  an 
anger  forming  in  instant  unmeasured  speech.  "Not 
for  myself,"  he  particularized.  "You  could  have 
seven  mistresses,  of  all  colors,  if  the  place  were  mine. 
Please  remember  that  it  isn't.  It's  the  company's. 
That  is  quite  different."  Daniel  was  making,  Lee 
realized,  what  for  him  was  a  tremendous  conversa 
tional  effort.  "Even  if  I  were  alone,  except  for 
Cubans,  it  would  be  possible;  but  there  is  Mr.  Strib- 
ling,  with  his  wife  and,  at  present,  grown  daughter, 
from  Utica;  he  is  the  Assistant  Administrador.  Then 
we  have  George  Vincent  and  Katharine — the  Chief 
Engineer  with  a  very  new  bride  from,  I  believe,  Ohio. 
They  are  very  particular  in  Ohio.  And  others.  You 
must  remember  that  I  have  a  photograph  of  Fanny 
with  the  children :  it  is  much  admired,  well  known.  I 
couldn't  explain  your  Mrs. — Mrs.  Grove.  Who 
could?  We  haven't  a  sister.  Altogether  I  am  sorry." 
He  stopped  uncompromisingly;  yet,  Lee  recognized, 
in  all  that  Daniel  had  said  there  was  no  word  of 
criticism  or  gratuitous  advice.  He  had  voiced  the 
facts  only  as  they  related  to  him ;  to  everything  else  he 
gave  the  effect  of  a  massive  blankness. 

Argument,  Lee  saw,  was  useless.  Extended  to  the 
heart  of  a  tropical  island,  the  virtuous  indignations 
of  a  hard  propriety  still  bound  their  movements. 
"All  that  I  can  suggest,"  Daniel  went  on,  "is  that  you 
return  to  Havana  tomorrow  evening;  the  company 

[332] 


CYTHEREA 

has  offices  there,  and  it  will  be  easier  for  me  to  see 
you.  Camagiiey  is  nearer,  but  gossip  there  would 
have  you  in  the  same  bed  no  matter  how  far  apart 
your  rooms  were.  Decidedly  not  Camagiiey." 

There  was  no  train  for  Havana,  it  developed,  before 
tomorrow.  "And,  in  the  meanwhile,"  Lee  inquired, 
"must  we  stay  here?  Savina  will  be  miserable." 

"Why  not?"  Daniel  gazed  about  casually.  "I 
lived  with  Venalez  a  month.  It  is  good  enough  if 
you  are  not  too  strict  about  a  travelling  beauty  or  two 
who  may  be  stopping  as  well."  His  apologies  to  Sa 
vina,  in  the  room  above,  were  faultless.  There  was, 
simply,  at  the  Cobra  sugar  estancia,  no  satisfactory 
arrangement  for  guests ;  except  for  an  occasional  party 
of  directors,  or  a  special  mission,  there  were  no  guests. 
At  his,  Daniel's  central,  in  Santa  Clara  on  the  sea,  he 
hoped  some  day  to  offer  them  the  hospitality  of  his 
own  house. 

When  he  left,  Lee  made  no  revelation  of  what  had 
been  said  downstairs;  Savina  accepted  the  situation 
as  it  had  been  exposed  to  her.  "I  can't  allow  myself 
to  think  of  a  night  here,"  she  told  him;  "it  will  be 
a  horror."  She  opened  the  slats  of  the  long  window 
shutters,  and  glowing  bars  of  white  heat  fell  in  a  lad 
der-like  order  across  a  blue  wall;  the  segments  of 
sunlight  were  as  sharp  and  solid  as  incandescent 
metal.  In  the  cobalt  shadow  Savina  was  robbed  of 
her  vitality ;  she  seemed  unreal ;  as  she  passed  through 
the  vivid  projected  rays  of  midday  it  appeared  as 

[333] 


CYTHEREA 

though  they  must  shine  uninterruptedly  through  her 
body.  Lee  considered  the  advisability  of  taking  her 
for  a  walk — there  were,  he  had  seen  from  the  train, 
no  roads  here  for  driving — but,  recalling  the  insolent 
staring  and  remarks  she  had  met,  he  was  forced  to 
drop  that  possibility. 

Weary  from  the  prolonged  wakefulness  of  the  night, 
Savina  made  an  effort  to  sleep;  and,  waiting  until 
she  was  measurably  quiet,  Lee  went  out.  The  heat 
was  blinding,  it  walled  him  in,  pressed  upon  him  with 
a  feeling  of  suffocation,  as  though — between  him  and 
the  freshness,  the  salvation,  of  any  air — there  were 
miles  of  it  packed  around  him  like  grey  cotton.  To 
the  left  of  the  hotel,  the  bare  plaza,  half  hidden  in 
scrubby  bushes,  there  was  an  extended  shed  with  a 
number  of  doors  and  fragments  of  fence,  heaped  rusted 
tins  and  uncovered  garbage;  and,  lounging  in  the 
openings,  the  door-frames  often  empty,  the  windows 
without  sashes,  were  women,  scantily  covered,  sound 
ing  every  note  in  a  scale  from  black  to  white.  Yet, 
Lee  observed,  the  whitest  were,  essentially,  black. 
What  amazed,  disturbed,  him  was  their  indolent  blink 
ing  indifference,  their  indecent  imperviousness,  in  the 
full  blaze  of  day. 

They  were,  to  Lee,  significant,  because  from  them  he 
drew  a  knowledge  of  Cobra.  He  could  not,  without 
such  assistance,  have  arrived  at  the  instinctive  under 
standing  that  interpreted  the  street  into  which  he 
turned.  It  was  the  street  of  a  delirium,  running,  per- 

[334] 


CYTHEREA 

haps,  for  half  a  mile;  an  irregular  deeply  rutted  way 
formed  by  its  double  row  of  small  unsubstantial  build 
ings  of  raw  or  gaudily  painted  boards  and  galvanized 
sheet  iron.  They  were  all  completely  open  at  the 
front,  with  their  remarkable  contents,  pandemoniums 
of  merchandise,  exposed  upon  a  precarious  sidewalk 
of  uneven  parallel  boards  elevated  two  or  three  feet 
above  the  road.  Mostly  cafe's,  restaurants,  there  was 
still  an  incredible  number  of  banks — mere  shells  with 
flat  tarred  roofs  and  high  counters  built  from  wall 
to  wall.  The  receivers,  the  paying  tellers,  were  many, 
with  the  mingled  bloods,  the  heterogeneous  character 
istics,  of  China  and  Colonial  Spain  and  Africa;  and, 
back  of  their  activity — there  was  a  constant  rush  of 
deposited  money  and  semi-confidential  discussion — 
were  safes  so  ponderous  and  ancient  that  they  might 
have  contained  the  treasure  of  a  plate  fleet  of  Peru. 

Crowding  in  on  them,  challenging  each  other  from 
opposite  sides,  the  restaurants  were  longer  and  shallow, 
with  their  groups  of  tables  ranged  against  walls  deco 
rated  in  appallingly  primitive  and  savage  designs: 
palms  like  crawling  spiders  of  verdigris  set  on  columns 
of  chocolate  rose  from  shores,  from  seas,  of  liquid 
bright  muds  in  which  grotesque  caricatures  of  men, 
barbarously  clad  or,  swollen  headed,  in  travesties  of 
civilized  garb,  faced  women  with  exaggerated  and 
obscene  anatomies.  They,  like  the  banks,  were 
crowded;  companies  of  negroes  sat  over  dishes  of 
mucous  consistency  and  drank,  with  thick  lips,  liquors 

[335] 


s 


CYTHEREA 

of  vicious  dyes.  The  prodigious  women,  often  paler 
than  the  men,  drinking  with  them,  gabbled  in  a  loud 
and  corrupt  Spanish  and,  without  hats  on  their  sere 
crinkled  masses  of  hair,  were  unrestrained  in  dis 
plays  of  calculated  or  emotionally  demented  ex 
citement. 

A  flat  wagon  passed,  holding,  on  precarious  chairs, 
a  band  furiously  playing  an  infernal  jumbled  music 
which,  as  it  swelled,  filled  all  the  occupants  of  the 
cafes  with  a  twitching  hysteria.  Subdued  masculine 
shouts  were  pierced  by  shameless  feminine  cries ;  lust 
and  rage  and  nameless  intoxications  quivered  like  the 
perceptible  films  of  hot  dust  on  the  air.  Negroes, 
Haitians  with  the  flattened  skulls,  the  oily  skin,  of 
the  Gold  Coast,  and  Jamaicans  glowing  with  a  sub 
cutaneous  redness,  thronged  the  sidewalks ;  and  sharp- 
jawed  men,  with  a  burned  indeterminate  superiority 
of  race,  riding  emaciated  horses,  added  to  the  steel 
of  their  machetes  revolvers  strapped  on  their  long 
thighs. 

What,  mainly,  occupied  Lee  Randon  was  the  naked 
ness  of  the  passion  everywhere  surcharging  the  surface 
of  life.  There  was,  in  the  sense  familiar  to  him,  no 
restraint,  no  cover  beyond  the  casual  screens  at  the 
backs  of  the  restaurants ;  no  accident  to  which  the  un 
certain  material  of  life  was  subject  was  improbable; 
murder  rasped,  like  the  finger  of  death  on  wire  strings, 
at  the  exasperated  sensibilities  of  organisms  exposed, 
without  preparation,  to  an  incomprehensible  state  of 

[336] 


CYTHEREA 

life  a  million  years  beyond  their  grasp.  It  fascinated 
and  disturbed  Lee:  it  had  a  definite  interest,  a  mean 
ing,  for  him.  Was  it  to  this  that  Savina  had  turned  ? 
Had  the  world  only  in  the  adherence  to  the  duty 
typified  by  Fanny  left  such  a  morass  as  he  saw  about 
him?  Was  he,  Lee  Randon,  instead  of  advancing, 
falling  bacFlhtc  a  past  more  remote  than  coherent 
speech?  Nothing,  he  asserted,  could  be  further  from 
his  intention  and  hope.  Yet,  without  doubt,  he  was 
surrounded  by  the  denial  of  order,  of  disciplined  feel 
ing;  and,  flatly,  it  terrified  him. 

Lee  insisted,  hastily,  that  what!  he  wanted — no, 
demanded — was  not  this  destruction  of  responsibility, 
a  chaos,  mentally  and  sensually,  but  the  removal  of 
it  as  a  rigid  mob  imposition  on  the  higher  discretion 
of  his  individuality.  The  thing  which,  with  Savina, 
he  had  assaulted  was,  in  its  way,  as  unfortunate  as  the 
single  reeking  street  of  Cobra.  Again,  the  scene 
around  him  wasn't  hypocritical,  its  intention  was  as 
thickly  evident  as  the  rice  powder  on  the  black  sweat 
ing  faces  of  the  prostitutes.  Hypocrisy  was  peculiarly 
the  vice  of  civilization.  His  necessity  was  an  escape 
from  either  fate — the  defilement  of  a  pandering  to  the 
flesh  and  the  waste  of  a  negation  with  neither  courage 
nor  rapture.  Damn  it,  couldn't  he  be  freed  from  one 
without  falling  into  the  other?  Lee  told  himself  that 
it  must  be  possible  to  leave  permanently  the  fenced 
roads  of  Eastlake  for  the  high  hills;  it  wasn't  neces 
sary  to  go  down  into  the  bottoms,  the  mire. 

[337] 


CYTHEREA 

He  regarded  himself  curiously  as,  to  a  large  ex 
tent,  the  result  of  all  the  ages  that  had  multiplied 
since  the  heated  tropics  held  the  early  fecundity  of 
human  life.  A  Haitian  lunged  by  with  out-turned 
palms  hanging  at  his  knees,  a  loose  jaw  dropped  on 
a  livid  gullet  flecked  with  white,  and  a  sultry  inner 
consciousness  no  more  than  a  germinal  superstition 
visible  in  fixed  blood-suffused  eyes.  He  had  an  odor, 
Lee  fantastically  thought,  of  stale  mud.  Well — there 
he  was  and  there  was  Lee  Randon,  and  the  difference 
between  them  was  the  sum  of  almost  countless  cen 
turies  of  religions  and  states  and  sacrifice  and 
slaughter.  He  had  a  feeling  that  the  accomplishment 
was  ludicrously  out  of  proportion  to  all  that  had  gone 
into  it.  For  the  only  thing  of  value,  the  security  of 
a  little  knowledge,  was  still  denied  him.  What,  so 
tragically  long  ago,  Africa  begged  from  the  mystery 
of  night,  from  idols  painted  indifferently  with  ochre 
or  blood,  he  was  demanding  from  a  power  which  had 
lost  even  the  advantage  of  visibility.  His  superiority 
was  negligible.  It  was  confined  relatively  to  unim 
portant  things — such  as  an  abstract  conception  of  a 
universe  partly  solid  and  partly  composed  of  ignited 
gases  revolving  in  an  infinity  of  time  and  space.  He 
was  aware  of  sensations,  flavors,  champagnes,  more 
delicate  than  the  brutality  of  a  rape  conceived  in 
strangling  gulps  of  sugar  cane  rum.  On  the  out 
side  he  had  been  bleached,  deodorized,  made  con 
formable  with  chairs  rather  than  allowed  to  retain 

[338] 


CYTHEREA 

the  proportions,  powers,  designed  for  the  comfortable 
holding  to  branches.  But  in  his  heart,  in  what  he 
thought  of  as  his  spirit,  what  had  he  gained,  where 
— further  than  being  temporarily  with  Savina  in  the 
beastly  hotel  of  Cobra — was  he? 

His  thoughts  had  become  so  inappropriate  to  his 
purpose,  his  presence,  here  that  he  banished  them  and 
returned  to  Savina.  She  was  notably  more  cheerful 
than  when  he  had  left  her,  and  was  engaged  with 
an  omelet,  rough  bread,  Scotch  preserved  strawberries, 
and  a  bottle  of  Marquis  de  Riscal;  most  of  which, 
she  told  him,  had  been  sent,  together  with  other 
pleasant  things,  by  Daniel  Randon.  She  was  un 
usually  seductive  in  appearance,  with,  over  the  sheer 
embroidered  beauty  of  her  underclothes,  her  graceful 
silken  knees,  a  floating  unsubstantial  wrap  like  crushed 
handfuls  of  lilacs.  "This  room  kills  anything  I  might 
put  on,"  she  replied  to  the  expression  of  his  pleasure. 
"After  all,  we  shall  soon  be  gone.  I  got  Daniel's 
servant  to  telegraph  the  Inglaterra  we  were  coming 
back.  They'll  have  to  watch  out  for  us.  After  we 
see  your  brother  there,  and  make  a  beginning  of  our 
rearrangements,  we  will  go  on,  I  think.  Do  you 
mind?  South,  Guadeloupe,  perhaps,  because  it's  so 
difficult  to  get  to,  and  then  Brazil.  I  have  an  idea 
we  won't  stay  there  long,  either,  but  travel  on  to 
ward  the  East.  I  do  like  islands,  and  there  are 
quantities,  quarts,  to  see  in  the  Pacific."  She  put 

[339] 


CYTHEREA 

her  arms,  from  which  the  wide  sleeves  fell  back, 
around  his  neck,  drew  him  close  to  her.  "It  doesn't 
matter  where  I  am,  if  it  is  with  you.  I  love  you,  Lee, 
and  I  am  happy  because  I  know  we'll  always  have 
each  other.  We  are  not  so  very  young,  you  see,  and 
there  isn't  a  great  deal  of  time  left,  not  enough  to 
grow  tired,  to  change  in. 

"I  wake  up  at  night,  sometimes,  with  that  tiresome 
pain  at  my  heart,  as  though  it  were  too  full  of  you, 
and,  for  a  little,  I'm  confused — it  is  all  so  strange.  I 
think,  for  a  moment,  that  I  am  still  with  William, 
and  I  can't  imagine  what  has  happened  to  the  room. 
It  frightens  me  dreadfully,  and  then  I  remember:  it 
isn't  William  and  the  house  on  Sixty-sixth  Street,  but 
you,  Lee,  and  Cuba.  We're  together  with  nothing  in 
the  world  to  spoil  our  joy.  And,  when  we  are  old, 
we  shall  sit  side  by  side  at  Etretat,  I  am  sure,  and 
watch  the  sea,  and  the  young  people  in  love  under 
the  gay  marquees,  and  remember.  Then  we'll  be 
married  and  more  respectable  than  the  weather-vanes. 
I  want  that  on  your  account;  I  don't  care;  but  you 
would  worry,  I  am  afraid.  You  are  serious  and  a 
conscientious  man,  Lee. 

"But,  before  that,  I  want  to  spend  all  my  feeling, 
I  don't  want  a  thrill  left,  lost;  I  want  to  empty  and 
exhaust  myself."  Her  emotion  was  so  strong  that  it 
drew  her  away  from  him,  erect,  with  her  bare  arms 
reaching  to  their  fullest  quivering  length.  In  the  blue 
gloom  of  the  room  shuttered  against  the  white  day, 

[340] 


CYTHEREA 

with  her  wrap,  the  color  of  lilacs,  lightly  clasping  her 
shoulders,  she  seemed  to  be  a  vision  in  subdued  paint. 
Lee  was  held  motionless,  outside,  by  the  fervor  of  an 
appeal  to  fate  rather  than  to  him.  She  was,  the 
thought  recurred  to  him,  too  slender,  fragile,  to  con 
tain  such  a  passion.  Then,  in  a  transition  so  sud 
den  that  it  bewildered  him,  her  mouth  was  against 
his,  her  hands  straining  him  to  her.  She  was  ugly 
then,  her  face  was  unrecognizable  in  an  expression 
of  paralysed  fury. 

The  heat,  Lee  protested,  grew  worse  with  evening; 
not  a  stir  of  air  brought  out  the  dry  scraping  rustle 
of  the  palms,  a  sound  like  the  friction  of  thin  metal 
plates.  The  balcony,  if  possible,  was  worse  than  their 
room.  In  his  irritation  Lee  cursed  the  scruples  of 
his  brother;  Savina,  prostrate  on  the  bed,  said  nothing. 
At  intervals  her  hand  moved,  waving  a  paper  fan 
with  a  printed  idyl  from  Boucher,  given  her  in  a  cafe* 
at  Havana.  She  had  none  of  the  constrained  modesty, 
the  sense  of  discomfort  at  her  own  person,  so  dominat 
ing  in  Fanny.  Lee  finally  lighted  a  lamp :  the  hours, 
until  the  precipitant  onrush  of  night,  seemed  station 
ary;  gigantic  moths  fluttered  audibly  about  the  il 
lumination  and  along  the  dim  ceiling.  When,  later, 
he  was  on  the  bed,  it  was  wet  under  his  sweating 
body.  In  a  passing  sleep  Savina  gave  one  of  the 
cries  of  her  waking  emotion.  In  a  state  of  uncon 
sciousness  her  fingers  reached  toward  him.  From  the 
balcony  beyond  them  drifted  a  woman's  challenging 

[341] 


CYTHEREA 

laughter — one  of  the  travelling  beauties  Daniel  had 
mentioned — and  he  could  hear  the  bursts  of  discord 
ant  sound  on  the  street  of  Cobra,  the  combined  efforts 
of  rival  bands  hideous  singly  and  together  beyond 
description.  What  a  hell  of  a  night,  what  a  night 
in -hell! 

The  moths,  defrauded  in  their  hunger  for  light, 
blundered  softly  around  the  walls;  when  Lee  rose  to 
light  a  cigarette  they  would,  he  felt,  gather  at  the 
match  and  beat  it  'out  with  their  desirous  wings. 
Then  he  heard  a  shot,  and  uplifted  clamoring  voices ; 
all  as  unreal,  as  withdrawn,  as  a  simulated  murder 
on  a  distant  stage.  He  pictured  the  flaring  restau 
rants,  the  banks  with  corrugated  iron  locked  across 
their  fronts;  the  faces  of  the  negroes  brought  black 
and  lurid  out  of  the  surrounding  blackness.  Savina, 
awake,  demanded  a  drink,  and  he  held  a  clay  water 
monkey  awkwardly  to  her  lips.  The  faint  double 
blast  of  a  steam  signal  rose  at  the  back  of  the  hotel, 
beyond  the  town;  he  had  heard  it  before  and  now 
connected  it  with  Daniel's  sugar  mill. 

His  brother  hadn't  perceptibly  changed  in  fifteen 
years.  During  that  time  Lee  had  seen  him  scarcely 
at  all.  Suddenly  he  was  sorry  for  this:  Daniel  was 
what  was  generally  known  as  a  strong  man.  Men 
deep  in  the  national  finances  of  their  country  spoke 
to  Lee  admiringly  of  him;  it  was  conceded  that  he 
was  a  force.  Lee  wasn't  interested  in  that — in  his 
brother's  ability,  it  might  be,  to  grip  an  industry  by 

[342] 


CYTHEREA 

the  throat.  He  envied,  speculated  about,  the  younger 
man's  calmness,  the  Chinese  quality  of  his  silence, 
the  revelations  of  his  carefully  few  words.  Daniel, 
in  past  years,  had  been  often  drunk,  various  women 
had  been  seriously  or  lightly  associated  with  his  name ; 
but  he  appeared  to  have  cast  them,  the  Bacardi  and 
the  blandishments,  entirely  aside.  He  seemed  as 
superior  to  the  dragging  and  wearing  of  life  as  a 
figure  carved  in  stone,  a  Buddha,  any  Eastern  present 
ment  of  the  aloof  contempt  of  a  serene  wisdom  at 
the  mountain  of  its  own  flesh.  Lee,  beside  his  brother, 
resembled  a  whirlpool  of  dust  temporarily  formed  by 
the  wind  in  a  road. 

Daniel  had  never  married,  he  had  been  too  cunning 
for  that  fragrant  trap,  as  well.  What  were  his  vices? 
But  were  habits,  self-indulgences,  held  in  the  back 
ground,  ruthlessly  subordinated  to  primary  activity, 
vices?  Lee  wished  now  that  Daniel  had  seen 
Cytherea;  he  was  certain  that  the  other  would  have 
said  something  valuable  about  her.  Through  his  long 
contact  with  the  naked  tropics  Daniel  understood 
many  things  hidden  from  him.  He  must  know,  for 
instance,  about  the  Brujeria,  the  negro  magic  brought 
through  Haiti  from  the  depths  of  Africa.  Everyone 
in  Cuba  caught  rumors,  hints,  of  ceremonials  of  abject 
horror.  But  of  that  Daniel  could  never  be  brought  to 
speak.  Lee  could  even  visualize  him  taking  part,  in  a 
cold  perverse  curiosity,  in  the  dances  about  smothered 
fires. 

[343] 


CYTHEREA 

He  thought  there  was  a  glimmer  of  day  at  the 
windows,  but  it  was  only  a  flash  across  his  staring  eye 
balls.  From  the  plaza  below  came  a  low  sibilant 
conversation.  It  went  on  and  on,  until  Lee,  in  an 
irrepressible  indignation,  went  out  on  the  balcony  and, 
in  a  voice  like  the  clapping  of  a  broken  iron  bell, 
cursed  the  talkers  into  silence. 

Christ,  it  was  hot ! 

Savina  was  sitting  up.  "Isn't  it  tomorrow  night, 
or  the  one  after  that?"  she  asked.  "This  room  is  like 
a  vault  that  I  have  been  in  a  thousand  thousand  years. 
I  can't  tell  you  how  it  affects  me;  it  seems  as  though  I 
must  stay  here  forever,  that  if  I  tried  to  get  away  I'd 
be  forced  back.  And  1  dreamed  that  everything  I 
owned  had  been  turned  blue — my  nightgowns  and  nail 
files  and  travelling  clock  and  the  oranges.  You 
wouldn't  believe  how  depressing  a  blue  orange  could 
be.  We  will  forget  it  as  soon  as  possible,  Lee.  Do 
you  remember  how  nice  the  room  was  at  the  Ingla- 
terra?  I  wish  you'd  feel  my  head:  isn't  it  hotter  than 
usual?" 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be?"  he  asked  impolitely. 

"It  wouldn't  be  possible,  would  it,  Lee,  to  have  the 
night  go  on  forever,  to  have  something  happen  to  the 
scheme  of  things?  Or  perhaps  I'm  blind."  Her 
voice  was  plainly  terrified.  "Light  a  match,  please. 
Oh,  thank  you.  What  an  idiot  I  am.  Hold  me 
closer;  then  I  can  forget,  then  nothing  else  matters. 

[344] 


CYTHEREA 

I  can  never  get  close  enough ;  I  wish  I  could  pour  my 
self  into  you." 

"You'll  be  able  to,  if  this  keeps  up,"  he  observed, 
with  a  note  of  brutality.  "They  will  find  us,  in  the 
morning,  in  a  bowl  and  two  pitchers." 

But  there  was  no  corresponding  lightness  in  his 
spirit;  periods  like  this  extended  into  an  infinity  of 
torment  beyond  time.  A  thinning  of  the  dark  ex 
panded  through  the  room.  A  cerulean  unnatural 
dawn  crept  about  him :  there  was  the  muffled  clatter  of 
horses'  hoofs  in  the  dust  outside ;  a  locomotive  whistled 
in  a  far  universal  key.  Savina  slowly  became  visible ; 
asleep,  her  personality,  her  vividness,  were  gone;  she 
was  as  featureless,  as  pallid,  as  a  nameless  marble  of 
remote  Greece.  There  were  marks  across  her  feet 
where  the  mules  chafed  her ;  the  mules  themselves  were 
lying  on  the  bare  floor.  He  saw  his  clothes,  the  fa 
miliar  habit  of  the  day,  with  a  sharp  surprise. 

It  had  been  a  night  without  rest,  without  the  cool 
ness  and  assuagement  of  a  release  from  the  fever  of 
the  day;  and,  Lee  thought,  he  felt  as  haggard  as 
Savina  looked.  A  wind  that  was  hardly  more  than  an 
erratic  stirring  of  super-heated  dust  agitated  a  loose 
slat  in  a  shutter  and  deposited  a  fine  dun  film  across 
the  floor.  Savina  put  as  much  as  possible,  so  early, 
into  her  bags.  Standing  before  a  narrow  mirror 
nailed  to  a  wall,  with  her  comb,  she  turned.  "My  hair 

[345] 


CYTHEREA 

10  soaked,"  she  wailed;  "just  putting  my  arms  up  is 
more  than  I  can  manage.  Haven't  you  been  thinking 
about  all  the  cold  things  in  the  world?"  She  slipped 
into  a  chair,  spent  and  dejected,  with  her  hair  clouding 
one  shoulder.  It  would,  he  repeated,  be  over  soon, 
and  he  gazed  at  her  with  a  veiled  inspection.  Savina 
was  so  entirely  unprepared  for  this,  the  least  hardship 
so  new,  that  he  was  uncertain  about  the  temper  of  her 
resistance. 

Aware  of  his  gaze,  she  smiled  slowly  at  him,  and, 
seated,  again  took  up  her  task  with  the  comb.  "I 
couldn't  have  you  see  me  very  often  like  this,"  she 
proceeded:  "it  would  be  fatal.  I  don't  mean  that 
when  I'm  finished  I'm  irresistible,  but  the  process  sim 
ply  must  go  on  in  private.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  wife, 
Lee — one  of  those  creatures  in  a  dressing  sacque  with 
hair  pins  in  her  mouth.  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of 
you  and  a  flannel  petticoat  together.  That  is  where 
married  women  make  a  serious  mistake:  they  let  their 
husbands  see  them  while  the  maid  is  doing  their  hair, 
or  when  they're  smeared  with  creams,  or,  maybe,  with 
tonsilitis."  She  rose.  "I  won't  be  a  wife,"  she 
chanted,  "I  won't  be—" 

Her  voice  broke  suddenly.  Lee  thought  she  had 
tripped,  he  lunged  forward,  but  she  fell  crumpling  on 
the  floor.  "It's  this  hellish  heat,"  he  asserted,  lifting 
her  to  the  bed.  Her  lips  were  open  and  dry,  and  her 
eyes,  without  vision,  stared  at  the  ceiling.  Lee  wet  a 

[346] 


CYTHEREA 

handkerchief,  dabbling  it  over  her  face;  he  had  never 
before,  he  realized,  seen  a  woman  faint.  It  was  ter 
rifying  but  not  grave;  they  did  it,  he  had  heard,  very 
often.  No  wonder,  after  such  a  night.  She  had  been 
gone  over  a  minute  now ;  there  must  be  someone  in  the 
place  who  would  know  what  to  do.  He  put  off  mov 
ing,  however,  both  because  of  his  reluctance  to  leave 
Savina  alone  and  because  of  the  difficulty  of  any  ex 
planation.  He  took  her  hand ;  it  was  cold  and  damp, 
and  her  forehead  was  glistening  with  minute  globes  of 
sweat.  All  the  blood  seemed  to  have  been  withdrawn 
from  her  body. 

"I'll  have  to  go  for  help,"  he  said  aloud,  in  a 
commonplace  manner  which  yet  struck  curiously  on 
his  hearing.  There  was  a  faint  quiver  of  her  features, 
a  scarcely  perceptible  sigh,  and  her  fingers  weakly 
closed  on  his  grasp.  "How  foolish,"  Savina  mur 
mured.  She  made  an  effort  to  raise  herself  up  from 
the  pillow,  but  he  restrained  her;  Lee  commanded  her 
to  be  absolutely  still.  "The  spirits  of  ammonia  is 
in  the  dressing-case,"  she  whispered.  He  held  the 
clouding  aromatic  liquid  to  her  mouth  and  she  took  it 
laboriously.  "Don't  call  anyone,  Lee,"  she  continued; 
"I'll  be  all  right  in  a  little.  So  much  at  once!  You 
see,  I  haven't  been  used  to  happiness.  No  wonder  I 
was  dizzy.  But  I  fainted,  Lee,  didn't  I?  That's  un 
usual  for  me." 

He  sat  beside  her,  at  once  moved  and  detached  from 
[347] 


CYTHEREA 

.  her  weakness,  gently  holding  her  supine  hand.  She 
mustn't  worry,  he  told  her  at  short  intervals.  "Don't 
worry,  this  is  nothing." 

"You'll  give  me  time  to  dress  for  the  train,"  she  in 
sisted.  "As  soon  as  we  get  away  from  here  I  shall 
be  better.  We  will,  won't  we?" 

"Get  away?  What  nonsense!  Of  course.  You 
will  be  up  by  noon,  but  there  is  no  good  in  your 
stirring  before  you  have  to.  If  Daniel  comes,  you  can 
see  him  here,  in  your  bed.  Or  you  needn't  see  him  at 
all.  It's  just  as  you  feel." 

Even  as  she  lay,  prostrate,  on  the  bed,  he  could  see 
her  collapse;  the  strength,  animation,  interest,  drained 
away  from  her ;  it  seemed  to  Lee  that  momentarily  she 
was  again  in  a  coma.  He  leaned  over  and  placed 
a  hand  on  her  brow.  Savina's  eye-lids  fluttered. 
Under  her  breast  her  heart  was  scarcely  discernible. 
Suddenly  he  didn't  like  it;  abruptly  an  apprehension, 
from  which  he  was  obliged  to  bar  a  breath  of  panic, 
possessed  him.  Lee  covered  her  lightly  with  a  sheet, 
and  went  out,  softly  closing  the  door.  Before  the 
hotel  he  caught  the  proprietor  by  a  shoulder  and 
pointed  up  to  his  room.  "Sick,  sick,"  he  repeated  the 
term  with  increasing  emphasis,  not  successful  in  ban 
ishing  his  vagueness  of  dismay.  The  proprietor 
smiled  uncertainly,  edging  from  under  the  weight  of 
Lee's  hand.  Then,  "Get  my  brother,  Mr.  Daniel 
Randon,  at  once,"  he  commanded;  "soon.  Mr.  Ran- 

[348] 


CYTHEREA 

don;  the  sugar — "     Lee  waved  in  the  direction  of  the 
mill. 

This  the  other  again  comprehended,  and  Lee  saw  a 
youth  swing  a  bare  leg  over  a  convenient  horse  and 
vanish  behind  the  Cobra  Hotel.  He  went  back  to  the 
room:  Savina  hadn't  moved  while  he  had  been  gone. 
She  seemed  even  weaker — a  thing  he  would  have  de 
clared  impossible — than  before.  He  bathed  her  face 
and  throat  in  water,  and  there  was  a  murmur  of  grat 
itude,  of  love,  so  low  that,  with  his  ear  against  her 
lips,  the  individual  words  were  lost.  His  disturbance 
increased  and,  when  the  heavy  firm  steps  of  Daniel 
Randon  had  approached  on  the  cement  of  the  corridor 
without,  and  he  had  knocked  and  entered,  Lee  pointed 
to  the  bed  with  an  unconcealed  anxiety. 

Daniel  bent  over  Savina  with  a  comprehensive  un 
moved  regard;  he  touched  a  cheek,  with  a  surprising 
delicacy,  and  then  turned  and  faced  Lee.  The  latter 
said  sharply,  "She  has  fainted,  but  it's  only  the  heat. 
She'll  be  all  right  after  a  rest."  As  he  spoke,  more  to 
himself  than  to  Daniel,  in  an  effort  of  private  encour 
agement,  what  confidence  he  had  dissolved  before  his 
brother's  impassive  negation. 

"It  is  more  serious  than  that,"  Daniel  Randon  told 
him.  "There  is  no  doctor  here  we  can  trust,  but  I'll 
send  a  gas  rail  car  into  Camagiiey  for  Fancett.  It 
will  take  three  hours  or  worse."  He  left  promptly, 
closing  the  door  soundlessly;  and  Lee  heard  his  voice 

[349] 


CYTHEREA 

from  the  plaza,  not  raised  but  intolerantly  domineer 
ing,  issuing  orders  in  a  Spanish  at  once  fluent  and 
curt. 

In  the  long-dragging  succeeding  period  there  was 
no  visible  change  in  Savina;  at  intervals  she  spoke 
faintly,  there  was  the  dim  trace,  the  effort,  of  a  smile; 
her  hand,  whenever  he  released  it,  slipped  away.  The 
heat  in  the  room  thickened;  the  barred  sunlight  cut 
}ike  white  knives  at  the  opposite  wall;  a  pungent  odor 
of  cooking  peppers  came  in  under  the  door.  Savina's 
bags,  nearly  packed,  stood  open  on  chairs;  the  linen 
suit  in  which  she  travelled,  the  small  hat  and  swath 
ing  brown  veil,  were  ready  by  her  low  darkly  polished 
tan  shoes;  gloves,  still  in  their  printed  tissue  paper, 
the  comb,  a  small  gold  bag  with  an  attached  chased 
powder  box,  a  handkerchief  with  a  monogram  in 
mauve,  were  gathered  on  the  chest  of  drawers. 

Lee  had  heard  the  rail  car  leave  for  Camagiiey: 
there  had  been  a  series  of  short  explosions,  first  scat 
tered  and  then  blending  in  a  regular  pulsation  soon 
lost  over  the  vanishing  tracks.  The  interminable  clip- 
clip  of  horses,  dreary  staccato  voices,  rose  and  fell, 
advanced  and  retreated,  outside.  But,  through  all  his 
attentiveness  to  Savina,  his  crowding  thoughts,  he 
listened  for  the  return  of  the  car  with  the  doctor. 
What  was  his  name?  Foster,  Faucett — no,  it  was 
Fancett.  An  American,  evidently.  "The  doctor  is 
coming,"  he  told  Savina  gently.  "Daniel  felt  that  he 
had  better  see  you.  From  Camagiiey.  A  good  man. 

[350] 


CYTHEREA 

I  want  to  get  you  out  of  here  at  once,  and  he  will  give 
us  something."  Waves  of  rebellion  passed  over  him, 
an  anger  at  his  impotence,  at  the  arbitrary  removal  of 
Savina  from  the  sphere  of  his  help.  His  coat  was  off, 
his  collar  unbuttoned,  and  he  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of 
his  shirt,  wet  with  sweat  and  the  bathing  of  her  head. 

To  Lee,  Savina  appeared  sunken;  her  cheeks,  cer 
tainly,  were  hollower;  there  was  a  shadow,  like  the 
dust  over  the  floor,  in  each  one ;  she  had  ceased  to  open 
her  eyes  but  they  had  retreated.  A  dreadful  twenty- 
four,  thirty,  hours ;  how  brutally  hard  it  had  been  on 
her.  She  hadn't  complained ;  he  had  been  more  upset, 
impatient,  than  Savina.  What  a  splendid  compan 
ion!  But  that,  he  irritably  felt,  was  a  cold  word  of 
description  for  her.  What  a  force!  She  was  that, 
magnificently,  above  everything  else.  Beside  her, 
other  people — the  rest  of  life — were  flat,  tepid. 

There  was  a  thin  far  vibration  which  grew  into  a 
flowing  throb;  Lee  identified  it  as  the  rail  car.  Per 
haps  the  doctor  had  been  absent.  However,  Daniel 
would  know  what  to  do.  The  footfalls  approaching 
the  door  were  multiplied:  it  was  his  brother  and  an 
elderly  wasted  man  with  a  vermilion  sprig  of  geranium 
in  the  lapel  of  a  white  coat.  He  nodded  to  Lee, 
pressed  his  hand,  and  went  quickly  to  the  bed.  In  the 
stillness  while  Dr.  Fancett  took  Savina's  pulse  Lee 
again  caught  the  shallow  rapidity  of  her  breathing. 
Daniel  Randon  stood  with  a  broad  planter's  hat  held 
with  the  lightness  of  touch  characteristic  of  him.  The 

[351] 


CYTHEREA 

man  at  the  bed  turned  a  speculative  gaze  upon  Lee. 
"Your  wife  has  an  acute  dilatation  of  the  heart,"  he 
pronounced.     The  significance  of  his  unguarded  tone 
shocked  Lee  immeasurably. 

"But  I  don't  understand  that,"  Lee  protested;  "she 
has  never  had  any  serious  trouble  with  her  heart  be 
fore."  He  was  halted  by  Daniel's  brief  peculiar  scru 
tiny.  The  doctor  replied  that  this  was  not  organic. 
"It  may  be  the  result  of  unaccustomed  and  excessive 
heat;  an  accumulation  of  the  excessive,"  he  added 
concisely.  "Excesses."  The  single  word  followed 
after  a  hesitation  in  which  Fancett  was  plainly  at  a 
loss.  His  frowning  gaze  was  still  bent  upon  Lee.  "I 
know  so  little  of  Mrs.  Randon's  history,"  he  finally 
said.  Daniel  naturally  had  inferred,  or  perhaps  the 
doctor  deduced,  that  Savina  and  he  were  married. 
They  would  be,  in  a  very  short  while,  Lee  told  himself 
stubbornly.  "You  have  ice  on  the  batey?  Yes,  at 
once,  please.  And  a  nurse  can  come  from  my  office 
on  the  Havana  train  this  evening."  Daniel  nodded 
once,  in  acknowledgment.  He  moved  closer  to  Lee: 

"This  is  serious.  You  can't,  of  course,  think  of 
going  on.  I  will  see  that  she  is  as  comfortable  here  as 
she  would  be  with  me;  everything  shall  be  done." 

Lee  answered  that  he  was  certain  of  that.  A  feel 
ing  of  helplessness  fastened  on  him,  together  with  the 
incongruous  speculation  about  the  propriety  of  a  cable 
to  William  Grove.  The  absurd  idea  occurred  to  him 

[352] 


CYTHEREA 

that  Savina  had  two  husbands ;  each  with  the  right,  if 
he  desired,  to  be  at  a  side  of  her  bed,  each  holding  one 
of  her  limp  hands.  He  dismissed  the  elaborated 
thought  in  a  rage  at  the  triviality  of  his  mind.  Fan- 
cett  and  Daniel  had  gone  temporarily:  Lee  had  heard 
the  former  making  arrangements  to  stay  over  night  at 
the  sugar  estate.  Savina's  fast  superficial  breathing 
now  dominated  the  room.  He  was  again  seated  be 
side  her,  leaden-hearted  and  blank. 

It  was  so  useless — this  illness  and  suffering,  now! 
The  doctor  had  seemed  to  insinuate  that  it  might  be 
traced  to  him,  Lee  Randon.  What  the  devil  did  he 
mean  by  that?  It  was  the  fault  of  Daniel,  the  immo 
bile,  as  much  as  anyone.  In  an  airy  room,  under 
comfortable  conditions,  probably  it  wouldn't  have 
happened.  Savina's  suit,  her  shoes,  the  bags,  hadn't 
been  disturbed.  There  was  a  faint  tightening  of  her 
grasp,  and  he  bent  close,  but  he  distinguished  only 
random  words. 

" — not  sorry.  Willing  .  .  .  with  you.  Don't  be 
unhappy." 

It  required  an  enormous  effort,  the  sound  was  at 
once  all  but  imperceptible  and  burdened  with  an 
agony  of  labor.  As  he  watched  her  he  saw  what,  he 
thought,  was  an  illusion — the  blueness  of  the  room,  of 
the  walls,  seemed  to  settle  on  her  countenance.  It  in 
creased,  her  face  was  in  tone  with  the  color  that  had  so 
disturbed  her,  a  vitreous  blue  too  intense  for  realiza 
tion.  He  was  startled:  like  a  sponge,  sopping  up  the 

[353] 


CYTHEREA 

atmosphere,  she  darkened.  It  was  so  brutal,  so  hid 
eous,  that  he  spoke  involuntarily: 

"No  one  can  live  blue  like  that." 

Then,  with  a  glance  instinct  with  dread,  he  saw  that 
he  was  right — Savina  had  died. 

A  calm  of  desperation  swept  over  him.  He  must 
tell  Daniel  and  the  doctor.  But  they  would  still  need 
the  ice.  The  revolting  details !  And  what  had  Fan- 
cett  meant?  It  must  all  come  out  now — his  presence 
in  Cuba  with  Savina — in  a  storm  of  publicity  and 
condemnation.  He  regretted  this,  because  of  Savina, 
dead.  Alive  she  would  have  smiled  her  contempt; 
but  death  was  different.  Anyone  would  acknowledge 
that.  The  dead  should  be  protected  from  slurs  and 
scandal  and  obscene  comments.  A  confusion  of  small 
facts  poured  through  him,  and  broke  into  trivial  frag 
ments  any  single  dignity  of  emotion;  no  generous 
sorrow  saved  him  from  the  petty  actuality  of  his  sit 
uation;  even  his  sense  of  loss,  he  realized  dismayed, 
was  dull. 

Savina  was  rapidly  growing,  at  last,  cold;  her 
arm  was  stiffening  in  the  position  in  which  he  had  left 
it;  in  a  necessary  forcible  gentleness  he  composed  her 
body.  But  he  didn't  hide  her — not  yet — with  a  sheet. 
That  would  follow  soon  enough.  The  blueness  was 
receding,  leaving  her  pinched,  but  white.  She  had 
always  been  pale.  ...  By  God,  he  had  forgotten  to 
tell  them.  Lee,  stumbling  down  the  stairs,  found 
Daniel,  the  doctor,  and  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel, 

[354] 


C  Y  T  H  E  R  E  A 

Venalez,  talking  together.  As  he  approached  there 
was  a  flash  of  premonition  on  his  brother's  broad  un- 
stirring  face.  Lee  said  humbly: 

"She  is  dead." 

Fancett,  with  Daniel  Randon,  went  up  at  once,  but 
he  lingered,  facing  the  Cuban.  Venalez  had  a  long 
brown  countenance,  with  a  disordered  moustache.  His 
trousers  were  thrust  into  the  customary  dingy  boots, 
but  his  shirt  was  confined  at  the  waist,  and  he  had  dis 
pensed  with  a  machete.  He  grew  uneasy  under  Lee's 
stare,  and  shuffled  his  feet;  then,  behind  a  soiled  thin 
hand,  he  coughed.  It  was  clear  that  he  wished  in 
tensely  to  escape,  but  was  held  by  his  conceptions  of 
the  obligations  of  conduct.  "The  suddenness — "  Lee 
said,  and  then  paused  with  a  furrowed  brow;  "that's 
what  surprises  me.  She  was  as  well  as  you,  and  sing 
ing,  yes — singing,  that  she  didn't  want  to  be  a  wife. 
I  thought  she  had  tripped  on  the  loose  silk  thing  she 
wore;  and  then  I  was  certain  that  she  had  fainted 
from  your  heat."  He  bore  heavily  on  the  word  your, 
and  then  proceeded  to  curse  the  atmosphere,  in  a 
heavy  manner  suggesting  that  it  were  a  property,  a 
condition,  under  the  direction  of  the  hotel  proprietor. 
From  that  he  proceeded  to  damn  Utica  and  the  state 
of  Ohio. 

"But  you  can't  understand  me,"  he  added,  illogi- 
cally  angry  at  that,  too.  Daniel  was  again  at  his  side, 
speaking.  "There  is  nothing  for  you  to  do  here,  and 
you  may  as  well  come  to  the  batey  with  me.  There 

[355] 


CYTHEREA 

are  some  accidents  that  cannot  be  provided  against. 
This  is  one  of  them.  She  will  be  attended  to ;  but  you 
must  explain  about  the  cables." 

"I  had  better  get  her  things,"  Lee  replied.  He 
couldn't  leave  the  delicate  and  beautiful  trifles  of 
Savina's  living  in  the  blue  vault  above.  "They  were 
scattered  about  the  room."  That,  as  well,  Daniel  as 
sured  him,  had  not  been  neglected.  Her  effects  were 
to  go  over  in  the  wagon  with  them.  Lee,  jolting  on  a 
springless  contrivance  over  an  informal  road,  kept  his 
hand  on  the  bags  beside  him.  They  were  in  Holland 
cases  which  hid  the  sets  of  initials  ending  in  G.  A 
revolver  was  shoved  under  the  leather  seat  at  the 
driver's  left.  There  were  the  negro  women,  half 
naked,  lounging  in  their  doorways. 

Telling  himself  that  Savina  was  dead,  he  lingered 
over  that  term,  at  once  so  definite  and  obscure.  There 
had  been  a  pain  in  her  heart  at  the  Dos  Hermanos, 
while  they  were  having  dinner,  after  the  steamer,  blaz 
ing  with  lights  and  with  music  on  the  upper  deck,  had 
swept  out  of  the  harbor.  And,  since  then,  at  night, 
she  had  cried  out.  That,  he  had  thought,  was  the  ex 
pression  of  her  consuming  passion.  He  hadn't  killed 
her;  he  would  correct  Fancett  there.  The  doctor's 
glance,  almost  suspicious,  had  been  intolerable.  Sav 
ina  had  whispered  to  him,  at  the  end,  that  she  was 
sorry  for  nothing;  she  had  begged  him  to  be  happy. 

He  roused  himself  and  asked  Daniel  if  they  had 
far  to  go,  and  learned  that  they  had  almost  reached 

[356] 


CYTHEREA 

the  batey.  Where,  Lee  added  silently,  Daniel 
wouldn't  have  us.  It  might  well  have  saved  Savina. 
The  same  ideas  persisted  in  his  mind.  He  wondered 
if,  in  the  hurried  packing,  her  handkerchief  had  been 
neglected?  It  was  one  of  a  number  that  Savina  had 
bought  in  Havana.  He  had  stayed  outside,  in  the 
motor,  smoking;  and,  when  she  had  rejoined  him, 
after  a  long  wait,  she  had  displayed  her  purchases. 
Her  voice  had  been  animated  with  pleasure  at  their 
reasonable  price.  Things  small  and  unimportant! 
His  brain  worked  mechanically,  like  a  circling  toy 
that  had  been  tightly  wound  up  and  must  continue 
until  its  spring  was  expanded. 

The  fundamental  calamity  was  too  close  for  any 
grasp  of  its  tragic  proportions:  Savina  dead  was  far 
more  a  set  of  unpredictable  consequences  than  a  person 
ality.  Alive  she  had  drawn  him  into  herself ;  she  had, 
with  her  body,  shut  out  the  world  of  reality  if  not 
of  mental  query.  Even  the  fervor  of  Cuba  had 
seemed  to  pale  before  her  burning  spirit.  What, 
without  knowing  it,  Dr.  Fancett  had  meant — a  thing 
Lee  himself  had  foreseen — was  that  Savina  had  killed 
herself,  she  had  been  consumed  by  her  own  flame. 
But  she  hadn't  regretted  it.  That  assurance,  be 
queathed  to  him  in  the  very  hush  of  death,  was  of 
massive  importance.  Nothing  else  mattered — she  had 
been  happy  with  him.  At  last,  forgetful  of  the  end 
ing,  he  had  brought  her  freedom  from  a  life  not  dif 
ferent  from  a  long  dreary  servitude.  He  would  need 

[357] 


CYTHEREA 

to  recall  this,  to  remind  himself  of  it,  often  in  the  years 
that  would  leadenly  follow;  for  he  must  be  regarded 
as  a  murderer — the  man  who,  betraying  William 
Grove,  had  debauched  and  killed  his  wife. 

That,  of  course,  was  false;  but  what  in  the  world 
that  would  judge,  condemn,  him  wasn't?  He  had  his 
memories,  Savina's  words.  A  sharper  sense  of  dep 
rivation  stabbed  at  him.  Why,  she  was  gone; 
Savina  was  dead.  Her  arms  would  never  again  go 
around  his  neck.  The  marks  of  the  mules  across  her 
narrow  feet!  He  put  out  a  shaking  hand,  and 
Daniel  Randon  met  it,  enveloped  it,  in  a  steady  grasp 
that  braced  him  against  the  lurching  of  the  wagon. 

On  the  veranda  of  Daniel  Randon's  house  Lee  sat 
pondering  over  his  brother's  emphatic  disconnected 
sentences.  "This  conventionality,  that  you  have  been 
so  severe  with,  is  exceedingly  useful.  It's  not  too 
much  to  say  indispensable.  Under  its  cover  a  certain 
limited  freedom  is  occasionally  possible.  And  where 
women  are  concerned — "  he  evidently  didn't  think 
it  necessary  even  to  find  words  there.  "The  conven 
tions,  for  example,  stronger  in  William  Grove  than 
his  feelings,  saved  the  reputation  of  his  wife;  they 
kept  Fanny  alive  and,  with  her  heroic  and  instinctive 
pride,  made  it  possible  for  you  to  go  back  to  East- 
lake.  If  you  choose,  of  course.  I  can't  enter  into 
that.  But,  if  you  decide  to  return,  you  won't  be  sup 
ported  by  noble  memories  of  your  affair — was  it  of 

[358] 


CYTHEREA 

love  or  honor? — no,  an  admirable  pretence  must  as 
sist  you.  The  other,  if  you  will  forgive  me,  is  no 
more  than  the  desire  for  a  cheap  publicity,  a  form  of 
self-glorification.  Expensive.  The  proper  clothes, 
you  see — invaluable!  The  body  and  the  intentions 
underneath  are  separate.  It  is  only  the  thoughtless, 
the  hasty  and  the  possessed  who  get  them  confused." 

The  veranda  occupied  all  four  sides  of  Daniel  Ran- 
don's  low,  wide-roofed  dwelling,  continuous  except  for 
the  break  where  an  open  passage  led  to  a  detached 
kitchen.  Seated  in  an  angle  which  might  be  expected 
to  catch  the  first  movement  of  the  trade  winds  sweep 
ing,  together  with  night,  from  the  sea,  practically  the 
whole  of  the  batey  was  laid  out  before  Lee.  The  sun 
was  still  apparent  in  a  rayless  diffusion  above  a 
horizon  obliterated  in  smoke,  a  stationary  cloud-like 
opacity  only  thinning  where  the  buildings  began: 
the  objects  in  the  foreground  were  sharp;  but,  as  the 
distance  increased,  they  were  blurred  as  though  seen 
through  a  swimming  of  the  vision.  The  great  bulk 
of  the  sugar  mill,  at  the  left,  like — on  the  flatness  of 
the  land — a  rectangular  mountain  shaken  by  a  con 
stant  rumbling,  was  indistinct  below,  but  the  mirador 
lifted  against  the  sky,  the  man  there  on  look-out, 
were  discernible.  The  mill,  netted  in  railroad  tracks; 
was  further  extended  by  the  storage  house  for  bagasse 
— the  dry  pulpy  remnant  of  the  crushed  cane — and 
across  its  front  stood  a  file  of  empty  cars  with  high 
skeleton  sides.  There  was  a  noisy  backing  and  shift- 

[359] 


CYTHEREA 

ing  of  locomotives  among  the  trains  which,  filled  with 
sugar  cane,  reached  in  a  double  row  out  of  sight. 

The  cars  were  severally  hauled  to  the  scales  shed, 
weighed,  and  then  shoved  upon  a  section  of  track 
that,  after  they  were  chained,  sharply  tilted  and  dis 
charged  the  loads  into  a  pit  from  which  the  endless 
belt  of  a  cane  carrier  wound  into  the  invisible  roller 
crushers.  The  heavy  air  was  charged  with  the  smooth 
oiled  tumult  of  machinery,  the  blast  whistles  of  varied 
signals,  and  the  harshness  of  escaping  steam.  Other 
houses,  smaller  than  Daniel's  but  for  the  rest  resem 
bling  it,  were  strung  along  the  open — the  dwellings  of 
the  Assistant  Administrador,  the  Chief  Electrician, 
a  Superintendent,  and  two  or  three  more  that  Lee 
hadn't  identified.  He  had  been,  now,  nearly  four 
weeks  with  Daniel,  and  the  details  of  La  Quinta,  the 
procedure  of  the  sugar,  were  generally  familiar  to  him. 

However,  he  had  had  very  little  opportunity  to 
talk  to  his  brother:  the  difficulties,  in  Cobra  and 
Havana,  of  shipping  Savina's  body  ba*ck  to  New  York 
— William  Grove,  persuaded  that  it  was  unnecessary, 
hadn't  come  to  Cuba;  a  fire  in  one  of  the  out-lying 
colonias  of  the  La  Quinta  estate,  that  had  destroyed 
three  caballerias  of  ratoon;  the  sheer  tyranny  of  an 
intricate  process  which,  for  seven  months  in  the  year, 
was  not  allowed  to  pause,  had  kept  Lee  from  any 
satisfactory  communication  of  his  feelings  or  convic 
tions.  But,  at  last,  returning  hot  and  fatigued  from 
the  clearing,  by  fire,  of  a  tumba,  Daniel  had  been  sit- 

[360] 


CYTHEREA 

ting  with  him  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  he  showed 
no  signs  of  immediate  change  or  activity. 

"What  you  say  is  clear  enough,"  Lee  Randon 
admitted;  "and  yet — but  I  can't  see  where — there  is 
a  sophistry  in  it."  Daniel  made  a  gesture  both  curt 
and  indifferent.  "I  tell  you  it  would  be  better,  even 
at  the  destruction  of  the  entire  present  world,  to  estab 
lish  honesty.  Since  you  have  referred  to  me — what 
we,  Savina  and  I,  did  was,  simply,  honest;  but,  again 
as  you  pointed  out,  its  effect  around  us,  for  bad  or 
very  possibly  good,  was  brought  to  nothing  by  the  way 
it  was  drawn  back  into  the  victorious  conspiring  of 
sham.  Even  I  don't  know  which,  commendable  or 
fatal,  it  was;  I  haven't  been  able  to  find  out;  I  hadn't 
time.  But  Savina  preferred  the  two  weeks  we  had 
together  to  an  infinity  of  the  other.  Fancett  may  call 
it  an  acute  dilatation  of  the  heart,  but  it  was  happiness 
that  killed  her.  It's  possible  for  me  to  say  that  be 
cause,  fundamentally,  I  didn't  bring  it  to  her.  Savina 
found  it,  created  it,  for  herself.  Through  that  time 
— was  it  long  or  short?  The  two  weeks  seemed  a 
life — she  was  herself,  superior." 

"How  about  you?" 

"I  was  absolutely  contented,"  Lee  replied. 

"Isn't  that  a  pale  word  for  an  act  of  passion?" 

"Perhaps.  It  may  be."  A  troubled  expression 
settled  over  Lee's  eyes.  "There  is  something  I  should 
like  to  explain  to  you,  Daniel,  to  ask  you  about,  but 
it  would  take  a  great  many  words?"  He  cast  this 

[361] 


CYTHEREA 

in  the  tone  of  a  query,  and  palpably  waited  for  the 
encouragement  to  proceed  fully;  but  Daniel  Randon 
was  persistently  non-committal.  He  had  no  intention, 
he  said,  of  urging  Lee  to  any  speech  he  might  later 
regret  and  wish  unpronounced.  "It's  about  my  at 
titude  toward  Savina,"  Lee  proceeded;  "or  it  may  be 
about  a  doll;  I  don't  know.  No,  Savina  and  the 
doll  weren't  as  distinct  as  you'd  suppose;  they  were, 
in  the  beginning  and  at  the  end,  one:  Savina  and 
Cytherea.  That  has  given  me  some  wretched  hours; 
(  because,  when  it  was  over,  I  didn't  miss  Savina,  I 
couldn't  even  call  her  individually  back  to  my  mind; 
and  the  inhumanity  of  that,  the  sheer  ingratitude, 
was  contemptible. 

"I  can  explain  it  best  by  saying  that  Cytherea  had 
always  represented  something  unknown  that  I  wanted, 
that  always  disturbed  me  and  made  me  dissatisfied. 
She  was  more  fascinating  than  any  living  woman; 
and  her  charm,  what  she  seemed  to  hint  at,  to  promise, 
filled  me  with  the  need  to  find  it  and  have  it  for  my 
own.  That  desire  grew  until  it  was  stronger  than 
anything  else,  it  came  between  everything  else  and  me 
and  blinded  me  to  all  my  life — to  Fanny  and  the 
children  and  my  companies.  But,  before  I  saw 
Cytherea,  I  was  ready  for  her: 

"Because  of  the  conventions  you  uphold  as  being 
necessary  to — to  comfort,  nothing  greater.  My  life 
with  Fanny  had  fallen  into  a  succession  of  small  wear- 

[362] 


CYTHEREA 

ing  falsehoods,  pretences.  I  had  made  a  mistake  in 
the  choice  of  a  career;  and,  instead  of  dropping  that 
blunder,  I  spent  my  energy  and  time  in  holding  it 
up,  supporting  it,  assuring  myself  that  it  was  neces 
sary.  The  most  I  would  acknowledge,  even  privately, 
was  that,  like  the  majority  of  men,  I  hated  work. 
Like  so  many  men  I  was  certain  that  my  home,  my 
wife,  were  absorbing  as  possible.  Wherever  I  looked, 
other  lives  were  built  of  the  same  labored  and  flimsy 
materials.  Mine  was  no  worse;  it  was,  actually,  far 
better  than  most.  But  only  better  in  degree,  not  in 
kind.  It  occupied  about  a  fifth  of  my  existence,  and 
the  rest  was  made  up  of  hours,  engagements,  that 
were  a  total  waste. 

"At  one  time  I  had  enjoyed  them,  I  couldn't  have 
thought  of  more  splendid  things ;  but  the  spirit  of  that 
period  was  not  the  same,  and  it  was  the  spirit  which 
made  them  desirable.  I  suppose  that  could  be  called 
my  love  for  Fanny.  I  was  glad  to  sit  and  discuss 
the  hem  of  her  skirt  with  her.  It  was  enough  just  to 
be  coming  home  to  the  house  where  she  was  waiting. 
I  tell  you,  Daniel,  my  life  then  was  transfigured. 
How  long  did  it  last — four  years,  six,  eight?  I  can't 
be  exact;  but  if  I  speak  of  its  duration  you  will  guess 
that  it  went.  It  went  slowly,  so  slowly  that  for  a 
long  while  I  was  ignorant  of  what  was  happening. 
It  left  in  the  vanishing  of  the  little  lubrications  you 
insist  are  as  needful  for  society  as  for  your  machinery.  J 

[363] 


CYTHEREA 

They  began  as  lubrications,  evasions,  to  keep  the 
wheels  turning  smoothly,  and  they  ended  as  grains 
of  sand  in  the  bearings. 

"First  there  was  Fanny's  convention  of  modesty — 
it  had  been  put  into  her  before  birth — which  amounted 
to  the  secret  idea  that  the  reality  of  love  was  dis 
gusting.  She  could  endure  it  only  when  feeling  swept 
her  from  her  essential  being.  When  that  had  passed 
she  gathered  her  decency  around  her  like  Susanna 
surprised.  Positively  she  had  the  look  of  a  temporary 
betrayal.  So  that,  you  see,  was  hidden  in  a  cloak  of 
hypocrisy.  Then  she  had  the  impracticable  convic 
tion  that  I  existed  solely  in  her,  that  she  was  a  prism 
through  which  every  feeling  and  thought  I  had  must 
be  deflected.  Fanny  didn't  express  this  openly,  it 
had  too  silly  a  sound,  but  underneath,  savagely,  she 
fought  and  schemed  and  lied — more  conventions — 
for  it.  And,  when  the  children  were  born,  she  was 
ready  for  them  with  such  a  mountain  of  pretty  ges 
tures  and  ideas  that  I  gave  them  up:  I  couldn't  fight 
their  mother  and  the  nurses  and  the  maids  in  the 
kitchen — the  whole  bloody  nice  world.  For  one  thing 
I  wasn't  home  enough;  when  I  got  in  for  dinner  they 
were  either  in  bed  or  starched  for  their  curtesies  and 
kisses.  They  are  superior  children,  Daniel;  yet  what 
they  were  taught  to  say  sounds  like  the  infantile 
sentimentalities  of  the  stage." 

The   capataz   of  the   batey   gang,    a   tall   flushed 
[364] 


CYTHEREA 

Jamaican  negro,  passed  on  a  cantering  white  pony. 
The  American  wives,  the  flowers  of  Utica  and  Ohio, 
went  by  in  light  afternoon  dresses,  one  propelling  a 
baby  in  a  cart.  The  Field  Superintendent,  lank  and 
sun-dark  under  a  green  palmetto  hat,  wearing  a  gro 
tesquely  large  revolver,  saluted  Daniel  from  the  open. 
"Trouble  a*t  the  cantina  barracon,"  he  called  cheer 
fully. 

"It  was  then/'  Lee  specified,  "that  all  my  loose 
ends  were  gathered  up  in  Cytherea.  I  have,  I  think, 
explained  her.  She  was  a  doll,  but  it  is  more  useful, 
now,  to  picture  her  as  a  principle.  I  didn't  realize 
that  at  first:  I  took  her  to  be  an  individual,  the  image 
of  a  happy  personal  fate  that,  somehow,  I  had  missed, 
but  might  still  catch  up  with. 

"The  wildest  kind  of  a  dream,"  Lee  Randon  pro 
claimed.  "But  when  I  became  aware  of  Savina,  or 
rather  of  her  passion,  I  was  sure  I  had  been  completely 
justified.  She  was,  I  believed,  Cytherea.  They 
looked  alike.  They  were  the  same!  However,  I 
mistook  that  sameness.  I  can  understand  now,  very 
clearly;  it  seems  incredible  that  I  had  been  so  blind, 
so  fatuous,  Daniel.  I  actually  thought  that  there  was 
a  choice,  a  special  graciousness,  existing  and  reserved 
for  me."  He  laughed,  not  bitterly,  but  in  a  wonder 
ment  that  bordered  on  dismay.  "I  felt  that  I  had 
found  it  in  Savina.  I  did  get  a  lot  there — more  than  I 
should  have  hoped  for — but  not  precisely  that.  At 
last  I  know."  His  voice  was  grave,  and  he  paused 

[365] 


CYTHEREA 

that  Daniel  might  grasp  the  weight  of  what  was  to 
follow.  "I  had  made  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  I, 
as  an  individual,  had  any  importance.  In  my  insane 
belief  that  a  heavenly  beauty,  a  celestial  chorus  girl, 
was  kept  for  me,  I  pictured  myself  as  an  object  of 
tender  universal  consideration. 

uDamned  anthropomorfic  rot! 

"It  was  a  principle  all  the  while,"  he  cried;  "a 
principle  that  would  fill  the  sky,  as  vast  as  space ;  and 
ignorant,  careless,  of  me,  it  was  moving  to  its  own 
end.  And  that — do  you  see,  Daniel? — had  grown 
destructive.  It  had  begun  differently,  naturally,  in 
the  healthy  fertility  of  animals  and  simple  lives;  but 
the  conceit  of  men,  men  like  me,  had  opposed  and 
antagonized  it.  Magnifying  our  sensibilities,  we 
had  come  to  demand  the  dignity  of  separate  immor 
talities.  Separate  worms!  We  thought  that  the 
vitality  in  us  was  for  the  warming  of  our  own  hearts 
and  the  seduction  of  our  nerves.  And  so  I  left  the 
safety  of  a  species,  of  Fanny  and  children,  for  the 
barreruiess .  of  Cytherea. , 

"That's  her  secret,  what  she's  forever  smiling  at — 
her  power,  through  men's  vanity,  to  conquer  the  earth. 
She's  the  reward  of  all  our  fineness  and  visions  and 
pleasure,  the  idol  of  our  supreme  accomplishment:  the 
privilege  of  escaping  from  slavery  into  impotence,  the 
doubtful  privilege  of  repaying  the  indignities  of  our 
birth."  His  rigid  strained  face  was  drenched  with 
sweat.  "We  made  her  out  of  our  longing  and  dis- 

[366] 


CYTHEREA 

content,  an  idol  of  silk  and  gilt  and  perverse  fingers, 
and  put  her  above  the  other,  above  everything.  She 
rewarded  us,  oh,  yes — with  promises  of  her  loveliness. 
Why  shouldn't  she  be  lovely  eternally  in  the  dreams 
of  men? 

"Then,  finally,  Savina  and  Cytherea  were  merged 
again.  In  Savina  her  passion,  always  abnormal, 
hadn't  been  spent;  there  she  was  younger  than  the 
youngest  girl  I  knew;  incomparably  more  dangerous. 
She,  too,  had  been  constrained  by  the  artificial,  by 
conventionality ;  and  when  the  moment  of  reality  came 
it  broke  William  Grove,  Fanny,  Helena  and  Gregory 
— all  the  threads  that  precariously  held  us.  She  was 
stronger  than  I,  Savina  was  the  goal  and  I  was  only 
the  seeker — that  was  the  difference  between  us — and 
in  absorbing  me  she  was  content." 

"That  is  very  ingenious,"  Daniel  told  him.  "Do 
you  notice  that  the  smoke  is  thicker  in  the  east?" 

"Not  more  in  one  direction  than  in  another,"  Lee 
answered  indirectly;  "in  the  east  and  south,  the  north 
and  west,  up  above  and  underneath.  It's  a  good 
thing  for  our  comfort  that  there's  so  much  of  it  we 
can't  see  the  fires.  If  the  books  of  physics  are  to  be 
credited,  the  center  of  the  earth  is  liquid  flame;  cer 
tainly  it  is  hot  enough  here  to  suggest  something  of 
the  sort." 

"It  is  worse  in  Oriente,"  Daniel  informed  him. 

"What  I  have  said,"  Lee  Randon  continued,  "came 
from  my  remark,  the  one  you  disagreed  with,  about 

[367] 


CYTHEREA 

the  need  of  an  understanding  everywhere!  Isolated, 
in  a  chance  individual  like  me,  it  is  worse  than  use 
less,  fatal.  It  destroys  the  support  of  a  common  cause 
with  a  humanity  only  less  resentful  than  sentimental. 
And  this  has  brought  me  to  the  reason  why — in  spite 
of  her  splendid  proposal — I  can't  go  back  to  Fanny: 
I  have  grown  too  detached  to  give  her  effort  a  pos 
sibility  of  success,  of  happiness  for  her." 

"If  you  are  so  cursed  abstract,  you  may  as  well  be 
in  Eastlake  as  at  La  Quinta,"  his  brother  asserted. 

"Your  saying  that  is  curious,"  Lee  replied,  "for 
it  is  exactly  what  I  told  a  man,  in  circumstances  re 
markably  like  my  own,  not  long  ago.  I  explained 
that  life  was  all  monotonously  alike;  and  that,  there 
fore,  it  didn't  really  matter  where  he  changed  to.  I 
still  think  that  most  of  it  is  inexcusable,  perhaps 
hopeless,  but  I  can't  subscribe  to  it.  What  Fanny 
wants  is  contrition  and  the  return  to  a  time  forever 
lost.  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  persuade  her  that  I  hadn't 
been  in  a  temporary  fever  which,  if  she  were  sufficiently 
careful,  would  go  and  leave  things  very  much  as  they 
were.  That  is  her  strength,  her  necessity,  and  she 
must  uphold  it  until  farthest  old  age  and  death." 

Daniel  Randon  rose  and  went  to  the  railing  of  the 
veranda,  gazing  intently  into  the  hidden  east.  "You 
are  right,"  he  said,  crediting  Lee  with  a  contention  he 
hadn't  made;  "that  is  the  refuse  on  Jagiies." 

"Helena  and  Gregory  don't  need  me,"  Lee  went 
on  and  on;  "or,  if  you  prefer — I  am  no  longer  afraid 

[368] 


CYTHEREA 

of  words — I  don't  need  them.  I  believe,  in  nature, 
that  the  length  of  paternity  is  measured  by  the  help 
lessness  of  the  young.  An  elephant  is  more  devoted 
than  a  crow.  My  obligation  was  soon  ended." 

"Bring  it  down  to  this,"  Daniel's  brevity  was  ex 
plicit:  "what  in  the  devil  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  haven't  any  idea  beyond  the  realization  that  I 
can't  stay  here  taking  up  your  room  and  Juan's  time. 
It  seems  to  me  that  for  a  month  he  has  done  nothing 
but  concern  himself  with  my  comfort.  I  did,  in 
Havana,  while  Savina  was  living,  think  of  writing; 
but  I  have  given  it  up  because  it  would  involve  me  in 
so  much  that  is  disagreeable.  The  amazing  fact  is 
that,  since  I  have  acquired  a  degree  of  wisdom,  there 
is  nothing  for  me  to  do,  nowhere  to  go.  The  truth, 
I  have  always  heard,  will  make  you  free;  but  for  what, 
Daniel?  What  is  it  the  truth  will  make  you  free  for 
except  to  live  in  the  solitude  of  public  hatred  ?  When 
I  refuse,  as  I  certainly  shall,  to  return  to  Fanny  the 
world  where  I  might  accomplish  something  will  be 
closed  to  me. 

"I  could  be  a  farmer  if  it  weren't  for  the  impos 
sibility  of  my  sleeping  through  the  early  part  of  the 
night ;  my  hands  are  too  stiff  to  learn  a  trade.  I  don't 
want  to  learn  a  trade!"  he  exclaimed.  "And  as  for 
starting  more  stock  companies,  rolling  greater  quanti 
ties  of  refuse  into  cigarettes  or  bottling  harmless  col 
ored  water,  or  controlling  a  news  sheet  in  the  interest 
of  my  other  interests — "  he  could  think  of  no  term 

[369] 


CYTHEREA 

sufficiently  descriptive  of  his  remoteness  from  all  that. 
"I  shall  have  to  be  what  a  universal  Eastlake  will 
prefer  to  call  me.  I'd  stay  here,  at  La  Quinta,  if  you 
could  find  something  for  me  to  do — like  picking  the 
limes  fresh  for  the  Daiquiri  cocktails.  Do  you  think 
your  company  would  carry  me  on  its  rolls  for  that? 
I  could  gather  them  in  the  morning  and  evening,  when 
it  was  cooler.  Thank  God,  I  haven't  any  material 
ambition.  I  like  the  clothes,  the  life,  of  that  nigger, 
the  capataz,  who  rode  by,  as  well  as  most.  I'd  sit  up 
on  the  mirador  and  keep — what  do  you  call  it? — the 
veija,  for  months  on  end." 

The  servant,  Juan,  small  and  dark  in  his  white 
house  coat,  appeared  with  a  tray  on  which  two  glasses 
with  stems  held  a  fragrant  amber  liquid. 

"That  is  perfection,"  Lee  murmured;  "where  else 
could  it  be  found?  Advise  me,  Daniel,"  his  voice 
was  both  light  and  serious.  "You  have  never  been 
known  to  give  advice,  but  certainly  my  case  is  un 
usual  enough  to  warrant  extraordinary  pains.  Shall 
I  make  a  neat  hole  at  the  proper  point  in  my  skull ;  or, 
better  yet,  put  half  a  grain  of  a  drug  that  will  occur 
to  you  on  my  tongue  and  close  my  mouth  on  further 
indiscretions?  That  has  its  aspects.  But  not  so 
strongly  after  one  of  Juan's  drinks;  they  are  distilled 
illusions,  vain  dreams  still  of  hope.  They  have  all 
the  brave  ring  of  accomplishment  without  its  effort. 
But  I  can  see  the  end  even  of  them — atrophy.  Soon 
Cytherea  will  go  into  the  attic,  have  her  nose  broken, 

[370] 


CYTHEREA 

and  the  rats  will  eat  the  clothes  from  her  indifferent 
body.  Cytherea  on  a  pearl  shell  in  the  Ionic  Sea  . . . 
I  was  one  of  her  train,  Daniel."  He  leaned  sharply 
forward — 

Daniel  Randon  was  asleep. 


[371] 


43  (8790s) 


VB  67647 


161 
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